


On a Pedestal

by Kittendiamore



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Agoraphobia, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Auguste (Captive Prince) Lives, Hurt/Comfort, Kind of Canon Compliant, M/M, prisoner!auguste
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2019-11-07 23:26:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17970071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittendiamore/pseuds/Kittendiamore
Summary: “What is his crime?” Nikandros asked.“I don’t know,” the girl said. “Some Veretian Lord came here throwing his money around and demanding the guy be locked up. He said he’d come back to deal with him later but…” Clearly not.“When did this happen?”“Not long after I was sent here.” So after the battle of Marlas then.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LineCrosser](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LineCrosser/gifts).



> Linecrosser has been drawing pictures for a [Nik/Aug rescued prisoner AU](https://linecrosser.tumblr.com/post/182997414756/) and it has been RUINING my life. So obviously, I stole the idea and am now writing it. I'm almost done writing it at this point, so I'm starting to post it to keep my motivation going through to the end. Keep mind of the tags, and also I promise there will be a happy ending.

After his third year as Kyros of Delpha, Nikandros decided to explore the smaller towns of the region that he’d previously been too busy for. It wasn’t until the final town on this trip that he encountered the man.

“I want to know what to do with him,” the serving girl said.

Nikandros stopped at the bottom of the basement stairs and squinted into the dark. The singular torch in its wall sconce gave only just enough illumination for Nik to be able to make out the figure of a man curled up on the floor. The man was either asleep or dead -- or perhaps beyond caring anymore -- because he wasn’t moving at all.

“What is his crime?”

The girl shrugged.

Nikandros looked at her. She took a step back.

“I don’t know,” the girl said. “Some Veretian Lord came here throwing his money around and demanding the guy be locked up. He said he’d come back to deal with him later but…” Clearly not.

“When did this happen?”

“Not long after I was sent here.” So after the battle of Marlas then. 

Nikandros took another step forward; he could feel the way his forehead was creasing as he frowned, Damianos was constantly teasing that he was too young for a such an expression. He stopped at the bars and tried to see the man a little better. His skin was dirty and his hair matted.

“So your village decided to leave a man in these conditions for three years because some Lord paid you to?”

“I kept feeding him,” she said, defensively.

“Have you spoken to him?”

“He used to talk at first,” she said. “He kept making up stories to try and get me to let him out, but he stopped after a while. I’m not stupid, I know if I’d let him out he would’ve killed me. He has a big cut on his chest from being a mercenary or something. And he’s bad at speaking our language.”

Nikandros sighed. This was the last thing he needed, but he could hardly leave a man to rot just because some unnamed lord had taken a dislike of him. “Fetch some water and food,” he said, “and find me the keys.”

The girl scattered off and then came back with the requested items. “You can go now,” Nikandros said. He doubted the prisoner would have the strength to pick his head up, let alone attack him. When the girl had retreated again, he unlocked the door and moved into the man’s cell.

“Hello,” Nikandros said, in Veretian. He had learnt the language out of the necessity from taking over what was temporarily Veretian territory, but he knew he had an accent because sometimes he could see people’s amusement when he spoke it.

Slowly, the man opened his eyes and sat up. He didn’t speak. Nikandros put the food and water down next to him and then took a few steps back so as not to crowd the man. “My name is Nikandros,” he said, “I am the Kyros of Delpha, where you are now.”

The man tried and failed to speak, drank some of the water and then tried again. “Kyros?” His voice was rough with disuse.

“It is an Akielon term,” Nikandros explained. “I have been in charge of Delpha since we won it from Vere. I think you use the word Lord, but the meaning is slightly different.”

The man was frowning. 

“Did you fight in the war?” Nikandros asked. “You have a scar.” From here, Nikandros could understand why the servant girl had been afraid of the man; his scar was terrible and spanned diagonally down his chest. It must have been a miracle that he had survived such a wound at all.

“Yes,” the man said. “I was injured. I woke up here. We are in Delfeur?”

“Delpha,” Nikandros corrected firmly. “Why were you brought here?”

“I have to go back. My brother needs me. He’s just a child.”

“Why were you brought here?” he repeated.

The man’s expression was terrible. “I don’t know. I woke up here and the girl won’t tell me anything. I…” Something happened behind his eyes, because suddenly he was looking up at Nikandros with a much more determined expression. “Let me out of here. I will trade you anything; in Vere I will have the means. I will make you the richest man in your country, just let me out.”

“I don’t want Veretian money,” Nikandros said, not unkindly. “And you haven’t been to Vere in three years. I’m sure any of your possessions would have been long inherited by now.”

“Three years,” the man said, dazed.

Nikandros couldn’t imagine the horror he must have been going through. “I have no interest in having a Veretian prisoner, nor can I - in good conscience - let a man waste away like this with no convictions or trial. I will you bring you back with me to Marlas, so that you can be seen to by a proper physician and, when you are well enough to travel, we will see about getting in contact with your family.”

If anything, this made the man look overwhelmed. He was blinking rapidly. “Yes,” he said. “Thank you.”

“I’ll find a blacksmith to unchain you so that we can get you out of here,” Nikandros told him. Then he paused. “What is your name?”

The man looked up, wretched in his filthy state and heavily matted hair. “Auguste,” he said. “My name is Auguste.”


	2. one

When he opened his eyes, Auguste thought he was dreaming. It was light, so very bright, despite him being indoors. He had forgotten what it was like to be in a room like this, so clean and above the ground. He was struck with how fresh the air smelled, and how light everything was, and he was on a bed! It was soft. Auguste sat up.

Judging by the way his entire body was aching, perhaps this was not a dream. He couldn’t remember anything except -- the man, the Akielon talking to him and offering to release him and then -- he must have passed out. 

Auguste looked down, at the white, white sheets, and felt dizzy. He picked his hands up and looked: his wrists were wrapped in bandages, but free of shackles. He touched his neck and felt the bandages there too. Auguste fell back against the sheets, pressed his palms against his eyes, and felt himself shake.

He was free. He was alive. He was, for the first time in a very long time, terrified.

-

In the early days, when he had woken up in that cell, still half delirious from the stitched up wound on his chest, he had thought about what he would do when he got out. His father was dead, he had remembered that much, and then he was taken -- although how he was spirited from the battlefield half-dead to the cell was beyond him -- and Laurent must have been sick with worry. That was all he had thought about. My country needs me, my brother needs me, I have to get out of here. 

And then he hadn’t gotten out of there. He’d been too sick to fight, then too chained to make an attempt for the door. The servant girl, who seemed to think he was some kind of lunatic, was too afraid to talk to him after his repeated attempts to convince her that he was a king. There had come a point where he’d stopped counting days. Then he’d stopped trying to talk to the girl. Then he’d stopped thinking of escape. Until finally, he was nothing at all.

He had moved beyond thinking of escape, turning to a grim sort of acceptance, except now he was free and he felt sick. He was sick.

“Carefully, now,” the physician said, seeming unfazed at watching him vomit into a bucket. “You ate too fast and the food was too rich. I’ll see about instructing the chefs to keep it to something more gentle.”

Why had they brought him the food in the first place then? The physician hadn’t shown up until he had been already halfway through his meal, but he wasn’t feeling generous enough not to blame her.

“Tell me how you’re feeling,” the physician instructed him. He put the bucket down and wiped his mouth.

It was hard to talk. Every time he had to hold a conversation, it felt like it took an excruciating amount of time for his mind to acknowledge what had been said and then form the words to answer.

“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s bright.” He’d asked the servant who had brought him the wretched meal to close the curtains for him. He had dreamed of seeing the sun again and now he couldn’t bear to.

“Hmm,” the physician looked at the now covered windows. “The sun will help, but you should take it slow. Give yourself time to get used to it.” That was her answer for everything. Time, time, time, as if he hadn’t wasted enough of his life doing nothing already.

“When can I leave?”

The look she gave him was galling. “Let’s focus on getting you walking first.”

-

The first week or so of his release was terrible. Auguste felt awful in every imaginable way. A servant came and cut his hair and beard. He was exhausted and yet had an almost impossible time actually sleeping. He was on edge constantly, and he didn’t know why. Despair fell over him in clouds and knowing that he was free and had no right to still despair made him feel even worse.

After maybe ten days, the man who came and released him out of his cell, Nikandros, appeared in the doorway.

He looked exactly like an Akielon. Tall, dark, broad, and barely dressed. Auguste had felt a frisson of terror when he had told the man his name, but Nikandros hadn’t seemed to connect that Auguste was _Auguste, Crown Prince of Vere_. He’d just made a comment about there being a thousand boys named Damianos in Akielos too, and then gone off to get the blacksmith.

“You look healthier,” Nikandros said, stepping into the room.

Not healthy, just healthier than before. He knew he probably looked like a ghost of a man. He was so pale now. He’d been tanned golden at the battle of Marlas. 

“Thank you,” Auguste said. He meant for everything.

Nikandros nodded, accepting his thanks easily. “The servants have said you have been kind to them. Althaia” -- the physician -- “wasn’t quite as flattering, but she agreed that you aren’t a completely terrible patient. Is there anything you need?”

He had considered asking Nikandros to send a letter to Arles, to Laurent specifically, but then he had thought of Laurent rushing here and seeing what a wretched creature he’d become. Selfishly, he couldn’t bear to face his brother as he was now. “Will you--” Auguste hesitated for a moment, but then decided to push through, “You said that Delfeur is now part of Akielos. I don’t know anything that happened after the war; will you tell me news of Vere?”

“I was more asking if you wanted a book,” Nikandros replied wryly, but he took the seat next to Auguste’s bed and looked contemplative for a moment before he continued. “With the king and your namesake dead, the younger prince was named heir and his uncle became the regent. Akielos won Delpha, and the remainder of the royal family went back to Arles. Beyond that there isn’t much more to tell you. Vere seems to have recovered fairly well from the war, and the prince is still too young to inherit for three or four years yet.”

He couldn’t imagine the grief Laurent must have gone through, thinking Auguste dead, but at least their uncle was there to support him. Auguste didn’t know their uncle very well aside from his occasional visits to the capital, but he had seemed intelligent and loyal during the war, always ready with advice. It was good that Laurent had someone to rely on, something Auguste had failed to provide himself.

-

His main goal was to get well enough to manage the trip back to Arles. Reuniting with Laurent was his priority. That meant he had to get stronger. Auguste had always been good at physical activities in his youth, this -- strengthening himself -- required that same kind of commitment and focus. He walked. He managed to keep the curtains open a little longer each day. He started eating proper meals without getting sick. He was getting better.

Some days he couldn’t force himself out of bed. He still couldn’t sleep. He still felt as if there was no warmth left in his body. He was still tense, all the time. That didn’t matter. Auguste would push through. He had to.

-

He had started to dread being alone. At least when there was someone else there, talking to him or even ignoring him, it was easier to remember that he was free and this was real. He didn’t like thinking about the cell but often thoughts of it plagued him. When he did manage to drive his body to exhaustion enough to sleep, he’d often wake startled, afraid that he was back there.

So he started to find himself company. He wasn’t ready to leave the house yet, his limbs still tiring too easily and the Akielon sun still too hot during the day, but there were other people in the fort and he could find people to talk to. The kitchen girls had startled the first time he had made his way down there, but they’d soon grown used to his presence. One of the bolder ones -- a half-Veretian woman named Thalia -- had even given him a knife and a bag of potatoes and told him to make himself useful. He found himself oddly enjoying it. Menial tasks that were once below him had become something to do with his time. A way to exist without thinking too hard about his existence.

Nikandros caught him in the kitchens one afternoon. He frowned, in the way of a man who didn’t quite understand what he was looking at as compared to one who was upset. He said something in Akielon to the women. Auguste caught the word ‘pester’ and the inflection of a question. He probably could have worked out the entire sentence if his brain hadn’t been so persistent in working against him lately.

Thalia laughed and shook her head. “He wanted to help,” she said, speaking Veretian with a conspiratory smile at Auguste.

Nikandros looked satisfied with that. “It’s good to see you,” he said to Auguste. 

What he meant was that it was good to see Auguste looking like something that resembled an actual person, Auguste thought. He simply nodded in response. 

“Would you like to join me for dinner tonight?” Nikandros offered.

He didn’t seem to care what Auguste’s response would be one way or the other, but Auguste accepted anyway. He’d sit in a paddock with cows at this point if it meant he didn’t have to be alone with himself.

-

He had been there for months. Surely it was time to leave. At dinner every day he thought to bring it up to Nikandros, and then every day he failed to. He didn’t know why, except just the idea of leaving the gates of the fort made the air feel thin.

Maybe he just had to do it. It wasn’t like he was improving that much anyway, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept, he could recover more in Arles. Laurent would be there, and his people, and his own physicians and servants would dote on him until he was back to himself. That was it. He would leave. Things would be better at home, and he could send a letter or some gold to Nikandros to thank him later.

He just had to leave.

Auguste stepped out the door. There fort opened up into a courtyard, where soldiers were fucking around and running drills, and looking altogether more human than Auguste felt. Nikandros was helping one of the younger boys with his stance. Auguste ignored them. The gate was open, he would just walk out. 

Just one foot after the other, he thought. He could do it. Everything was fine. He felt peculiarly as his hearing was fading out. He was sweating, he realised.

He made it two steps past the gate when he realised that he could barely breathe. He thought hysterically for a moment that he’d had a fairytale spell cast upon him, where now that he’d left the fort, he would die.

He opened his eyes (when had he closed them?) and stared at the dirt in front of him. He was on his knees, in the dirt. He couldn’t breathe. He was going to die. Auguste closed his eyes again, forcefully this time.

He had the terrible urge to run back inside, but he fought it. 

Slowly, he forced himself to stand, and turn back around. He stepped back inside the gates. He had to concentrate on each step. It felt as if he’d spent the day fighting a war in full armour.

He was halfway across the courtyard.

“Auguste,” Nikandros called out, approaching him. He looked concerned. Auguste dreaded what he must have looked like in that moment. “Are you well?”

He forced himself to nod. “Just a walk,” he forced himself to say. He firmly looked away, and continued his way back to the door. 

Auguste managed to make it all the way back to his room and lock the door behind him, before he let himself drop back to the ground in despair. He truly was broken, he thought. He would never make it back to Arles.


	3. two

“You seem a lot stronger lately,” Nikandros said, over dinner one night.

“I’m not exactly ready to pick up a sword,” Auguste replied, because he couldn’t agree.

“I thought you might be demanding I return you to Vere by now.” 

“Ah,” Auguste said. “I’ve outstayed my welcome.” It wasn’t as if he hadn’t thought Nikandros would make him leave at some point; Auguste was well aware that he was a waste of resources here. He just thought he’d have a bit more time to figure something out. To get better at the truly difficult task of going outside without swooning like a fucking maiden. He’d made three subtle attempts to leave the fort and every time the result had been the same.

But then Nikandros said, “No. I wasn’t suggesting that. We say what we mean in Akielos, you don’t need to look for hidden meanings here.”

Auguste blinked. He could have denied it -- Vere wasn’t nearly as terrible as Nikandros seemed to think -- except that had been what Auguste was doing. “I didn’t intend to offend you,” Auguste said. 

“You didn’t.” Nikandros waved that away with a gesture. “It truly isn’t any hardship having you here. And you come with the added benefit of forcing me to improve my Veretian.”

-

His favourite part of any day was when he could find Nikandros in the library. Nikandros seemed to like going there when he was dealing with reports, and it meant Auguste could have some companionable quiet time. He had read a lot of books lately. Laurent would be proud.

Except today, when he was so tired of the impossibility of sleep that his eyes kept blurring the words. Auguste rubbed at his temple, frustrated.

“Have you slept recently?” Nikandros asked. His words were neutral, but he left the topic open for Auguste. It was something that Auguste was learning to appreciate about him. He would make an admirable advisor to his King one day.

Auguste sighed. “Would you believe that I think I slept better in that cellar?”

“You were there for long enough to grow used to it.”

“I never slept well on the battlefield either,” he admitted. Those days seemed so far away as to be almost untouchable by his memory. “I think at least when I was...down there, there was no reason not to sleep -- it wasn’t as if things could get any worse.”

He glanced at Nikandros who, rather than react as if Auguste’s admittance was pathetic, looked thoughtful. “I remember during Marlas, there was a boy,” he said, finally. “A commendable fighter, despite how young he was, it was always impressive to see him on the field. One evening, I woke in the night to find him lying on his bedroll, completely awake. Everytime he closed his eyes, he said, his mind tricked him into thinking there was a sword coming. He was so aware of the risk of death that he could barely rest.”

“I’ve never been terribly fearful,” Auguste told him, quietly. “But when I think of that cellar…”

“I pushed our bedrolls together,” Nikandros continued when it was clear that Auguste wouldn’t. “And we slept like that, shoulder to shoulder every night. It helped him to feel safe enough to sleep.”

“You sound like a good commander.”

“Yes, I told you that exactly because I wanted you to compliment me,” Nikandros said, dryly.

He’d never learnt to discuss his feelings. It wasn’t seemly for the heir of a kingdom to whine. It made it hard to discuss this with Nikandros directly. Auguste smiled weakly and made an attempt at humour. “Ah, you’re trying to lure me into bed with you.”

Nikandros nodded. “It’s all part of my seduction plan. Tales of the horrors of war always result in swooning.”

“Consider me won over.”

“If it helps,” Nikandros said, more seriously, “my door is open.”

-

At first, he thought it wouldn’t help. He didn’t see how being near someone would ease the roiling of his brain except he was so desperate to just feel something (even if that something was merely well-rested) that he accepted the invitation. And, somehow, it helped.

Nikandros was warm, so very warm in a way that amazed Auguste. He felt as if he had been chilled to the bone in that fucking cellar, to a point where coldness had permeated his very being, and here was Nikandros, fire warm. Auguste had an almost hysterical moment where he imagined Nikandros stepping through the snowy fields in Arles, dissolving the ice as he went, fresh green grass budding up under his footsteps.

Auguste slept.

-

The courtyard of the fort was okay. It was easier to be out there, in the sun, when he still had walls all around him and the door was an easy distance away. He walked around the edges, where there was enough shade to keep his skin from burning, and watched Nikandros’ soldiers run drills. They couldn’t afford to get lax, Nikandros had said, when the Vaskians kept raiding the border villages.

He watched the men, throwing each other around and pointing practice swords at each other, and felt a longing so strong that it felt like it physically pierced him. It must have been obvious on his face, as Nikandros looked to him and then turned away from his men to approach.

“Are you any good?” he asked.

“I was,” Auguste replied. The best in Vere. How far he had fallen.

“You’re welcome to join us,” Nikandros said. 

Auguste’s gaze flicked back over to the men. He missed the easy camaraderie most of all -- helping a man up after you knocked him down, teaching each other new moves. “I don’t think my pride could take getting thrown into the dirt by your men.”

Nikandros accepted that. “If you wish to practice alone, there’s a more private training area. I could join you there, even, before we risk letting the soldiers at you.”

It was an dizzying feeling every time Nikandros offered something out of decency. He hadn’t asked for anything from Auguste yet, nor had he pushed him to do more than he could handle, or leave. Auguste was so used to the people he met treating him well for his status, that it felt wondrous to have someone be kind just because it was their nature to be so.

Auguste took a step forward, and felt the enveloping heat of the sun hit him as he left the shade. “Thank you,” he said. “Maybe once I see you in action, I’ll be able to figure out why you keep getting trounced by Vaskians.”

Nikandros’ expression flickered, and he didn’t seem to hear Auguste for all that he was looking at him. “You’re blond,” he said.

Auguste, who as of late had taken to describing himself with words like wretched and damaged, was a little shocked for that to be what Nikandros had taken notice of. “Yes,” he agreed. “I was born like that.” His hair had grown back over the months, but it was still fairly short.

Nik smiled slightly, shaking his head as if to clear it. “It’s more noticeable in the light,” he said. “Sorry, I just -- of course you’re blonde. I’m going to go knock my men down a bit more.” And then he turned and walked away.

-

It seemed as if his body was trading off on negative effects and every time he met progress in one way, another complication would arise. He could sleep, thanks to Nikandros’ open willingness to share his bed, and so now his mind was subjecting him to a constant barrage of nightmares.

For the third night in a row, he was awoken in a jolt, covered in sweat and mind reeling. A sharp pain across one side of him brought Auguste back into reality enough to realise that this time he had apparently fallen out of bed. Exhausted and shaking slightly, Auguste pressed his forehead against the cool stone flooring, and tried to calm his breathing.

There was a rustling behind him; Nikandros had woken up then. Perfect.

“Auguste?” his voice was sleep-addled.

“Just a moment,” Auguste replied, as if it were totally normal to throw oneself upon the floor in the middle of the night. He could hear the odd quiver in his voice; another sign of weakness.

Nikandros gave him silence, for long enough that Auguste thought he might have gone back to sleep, and then he spoke again, “Will you sit up?”

He could do that, he thought. Slowly, he did. Auguste pressed his back against the side of the bed and, almost childlike, brought his knees up to his chest so that he could bury his face against them. He felt too raw to be seen. 

Nikandros moved carefully to sit on the ground beside him.

“You should go back to sleep,” Auguste said, words muffled. “I apologise for waking you.”

“If I get used to sleeping through the night, I’ll be too pampered to command my men,” Nikandros said.

Auguste turned his head to look at him. It was a pointless move, the room too dark from the night sky to let him see more than the outline of a figure. He tried to blink the darkness away anyway. Futile challenges seemed to be his thing nowadays. “Why did you take me out of that cell?”

“I don’t know what it’s like in Vere,” Nikandros said, slowly. He had the hushed tone that came naturally with nighttime conversations. “But in Akielos, we don’t leave men in cages for no reason.”

“Four years ago, I would have said the same of my people.”

“Are you having second thoughts about going back?”

Auguste smiled, the grim kind of smile that happens when the only alternative is breaking. “I don’t think I’ll be much use there.”

Nikandros was silent. Auguste was used to him enough by now to recognise it as a thoughtful silence; he knew to just wait it out and the man would speak when he was ready.

“I am, admittedly, ill-equipped to know what to say to you that will help,” he finally admitted. He made it sound like a failing -- as if any man would know how to deal with what Auguste had become.

There was something easy about this; confiding in each other when they were tired and under the cover of night. “You’ve already done more than enough for me,” Auguste said.

Nikandros shook his head. “You’re so busy judging your weaknesses that you can’t see your strengths. I saw what you were like down there, and every time I catch sight of you standing and alive it never ceases to impress me.”

“Is that why you keep me around?”

Nikandros’ shoulder brushed against his lightly. “You’ve befriended too many of the servants. They’d riot if I kicked you out.”

Quietly, the sound almost foreign to him, Auguste laughed.

-

Auguste did take up Nikandros’ idea to train privately. He spent the first while practising alone, working on exercises to get his neglected muscles back into proper use. It felt good. His body remembered even if his mind had had doubts.

He was finally starting to feel like himself again. He could picture the steps: get stronger, train more, get more comfortable being outside. All achievable goals. It was going to take a lot of time, effort, and dedication, but that was something he could afford. He was starting to see himself, not as he was, but as he could be. Someone who could go home even, and show himself to his brother with more pride than shame. He wanted that very much.

“You want to spar?” Nik said, looking surprised.

“If you have the time,” Auguste agreed.

It was gratifying to see Nikandros close his book without any further deliberation. “You’re smiling so much this feels like a trick,” he said. “If you cut my head off I’ll be displeased.”

“You’ve figured out my plan,” Auguste agreed. “I’ll single-handedly win back Delfeur.”

And so they sparred. 

“Your stance is impeccable,” Nikandros said, while they swung at each other.

“Apparently all those drills weren’t completely useless,” Auguste replied, quietly pleased.

It was a light match. Nikandros was obviously still stronger and better practised than Auguste, but Auguste felt like he was carrying his weight. Once he had some actual muscle again, he was secretly confident that he would be able to win.

“Don’t be offended,” Nikandros said, when they had taken a break to drink some water. “I can see that you were very well trained. But you’re out of practice and you don’t have the muscle mass to take someone down yet.”

“Yes, I’d quite figured that out for myself,” he agreed, gesturing between them and at how obviously more exhausted Auguste was.

“Have you been sleeping well?”

“You would have noticed if I wasn’t.” That morning Auguste had woken up first. He’d been sleeping in the same curled position that he had adopted in the cell, except for one arm that had been stretched out and resting against Nikandros’ wrist.

Nikandros nodded. “I have a new soldier coming this week. Pallas. His father is a nobleman and he apparently pleaded to get some practical training on the border. Would you like to train with him?”

There was Nik once again, the problem solver. It would give Auguste someone to train with who wasn’t up to the skill set of the older soldiers, who wasn’t used to the way they ran things here. Auguste nodded.

“Good,” Nik said. “I want us to have a rematch later. There’s a maneuver you did earlier that I want to see again.”


	4. three

Unexpectedly, the pampered nobleman’s young son turned out to be extremely talented. It was irritating enough that Auguste was now doubly motivated to get better. He was going to knock Pallas into the dirt or die trying.

-

“I have rumours from Vere,” Nikandros said over dinner one evening. He’d learnt and accepted that Auguste was interested in any kind of information about Vere that was going around, and now he shared it freely.

Auguste looked up from his meal with obvious delight, even when it made Nikandros roll his eyes jokingly.

“Apparently, the crown prince has refused border duty. He prefers the pampered palace life over getting dirty with soldiers.”

“Not everyone is inclined to spend their days trying to kill each other,” Auguste said.

Nikandros raised an eyebrow. “You called one of my men a lazy derelict for sitting down yesterday.”

“It’s different for soldiers.”

“Is a prince not meant to set an example for his men?”

“Yes, but,” Auguste argued, “Laurent-- Prince Laurent is well-known for being a boy of great intellect. He was talking well before he could even walk. He was editing treatise at thirteen! He might not be overly invested in swordsmanship, but he has the natural talent to bring Vere to prosper for generations.”

Nikandros was smiling at him oddly, as if he wasn’t sure whether he was amused or not. “You might be Prince Laurent’s biggest supporter.”

Auguste realised he was perhaps coming on a bit strong, but it upset him to think people were judging Laurent for being true to where his talents lay. And it wasn’t as if Vere could afford to have the last heir off fighting on the border. “As if you wouldn’t die for your Prince,” Auguste said, instead.

Nik tipped his glass in acknowledgement. “A fair point.” He took a sip of his wine. “Speaking of which: I have to go to Ios for a week or two,” he said, casually. “Would you like to join me? I wouldn’t be able to introduce you to the King, of course, but if you want to get out of the fort for some time, the cliffs are beautiful.”

“I…” Auguste realised that he wanted to say yes. He wanted a chance to travel like he used to, camping and stopping at inns and meeting new people. Nikandros would be wonderful company for such a trip, so easy to talk to or be silent with. But he also knew that that was impossible.

Nikandros waited until it was clear that Auguste didn’t have an answer and then he spoke, softly: “It gives you discomfort to leave the fort?”

Auguste twitched with the desire to lie about it. In the end, he just nodded, slowly.

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I want to go out there, I just can’t.”

Nikandros nodded. “Do you want to try?”

Auguste scoffed, self deprecating. “I don’t want to stay in this fort forever.” 

“We could go for a walk,” Nikandros offered. “We wouldn’t go far.”

Auguste put down his fork. He nodded. “Let’s try it.”

-

The next morning he woke to an empty bed. It seemed that Nikandros had left before the sun had even fully broken across the horizon. Auguste fell back against the sheets with a sigh. It was going to be a long couple of weeks.

Their walk last night had been… interesting. Auguste hadn’t made it far, but Nikandros had kept speaking to him the entire time, giving him something to focus on that wasn’t his panic. Then when it had become too much, Nikandros hadn’t tried to force the matter, he’d just let them turn around and walk back inside with a hand on Auguste’s arm the whole way.

-

The third time in a row that he knocked the sword from Pallas’ hands, he couldn’t help but grin. Auguste offered him a hand up. Pallas, rather than disgruntled, looked happy. He seemed to radiate joy whenever he fought, as if he truly enjoyed it. Auguste could remember that youthful joy; taking pleasure in the physical was easy when you weren’t fighting for your life.

“Again?” Pallas asked. He spoke only in Akielon, the few words he picked up from Auguste were curses. 

Auguste laughed. “Again,” he agreed. 

They took their positions and then began. It felt good. Auguste was finally feeling his old prowess returning. He was certain that he could knock a majority of the Akielons here into the dirt if need be. The aching muscles and strain had finally started to pay off.

Their blades clashed. Auguste was familiar with Akielon fighting techniques by now, and he found much joy in figuring out ways to parry them. Pallas was a natural when it came to swordfighting, he was incredibly adaptable. He was the kind of man that would belong in the King’s guard in a few years. 

Pallas came in close, and executed a risky maneuver that got him in Auguste’s guard. Auguste brought his sword up and disarmed the boy, unfortunately, their proximity meant that in the process Auguste’s elbow met with Pallas’ nose.

Pallas made a sound of pain and fell back. 

Auguste immediately dropped his sword and moved in to check the damage. “Are you alright?”

Pallas took his hands away from his nose, revealing blood. He was still, somehow, smiling. “That was good! Can you teach me?”

“Tip your head back,” Auguste said. “Let me look at your face.”

Pallas obeyed. Auguste looked. He had spent some time with physicians in Arles, learning basic medical techniques that might help on duty or in the field. This wasn’t the first time he’d looked at an injured soldier. There was no point in being a prince if you could not take care of your people. “Is it bad?” Pallas asked, sounding unconcerned.

“You’ll live,” Auguste replied, dryly. “It’s crooked. Hold still and I’ll put it back in place, or you’ll never get a woman to marry you.”

Pallas laughed, but let Auguste work. 

“You are very capable,” Pallas said, when Auguste stepped back. “I can understand why the Kyros likes you, even if you are Veretian.”

“Thank you, I suppose.”

Pallas touched his nose, gingerly, then winced. “You are good for the Kyros,” he said. “Many men wish to be his lover, but I am glad he chose you. Do not listen to the soldiers that don’t like you.”

“What?” Auguste said, but Pallas just patted his shoulder and went off to wash the blood from his face.

It made sense, Auguste realised after some thought, that the men would assume that he and Nikandros were lovers. They ate together and shared a bed, confided in each other. They were, essentially, lovers without sex. It was an odd thought. Auguste hadn’t really considered sex since he’d been locked in that cell. He’d been too busy working to get well enough to stop feeling quite so pathetic. 

There was no point in thinking of it now, either. Auguste was well aware that it was often impossible to stop soldiers from gossiping like women. He’d have time to consider lovers and intimacy when he was back in Arles, where he belonged.

-

It was somewhat easier to sleep, he had discovered while Nikandros was gone, if he slept on the floor. It was a terrible mixture of shame and comfort, to find peace when he was on the cold, hard ground that reminded him of his cell. He took the bedding from the mattress and spread it on the floor and tried to convince himself that it was no different from camping with his men. It didn’t mean he wanted to go back to the cell, just that his body was used to firm surfaces.

-

Once he had gotten used to feeling the horrible clawing panic that came with stepping outside of the fort, he felt better prepared to deal with it. It was a slow process, but he found he could force through it somewhat. He hadn’t died yet. That was reassuring. As long Auguste remembered how to breathe, he was probably going to survive.

Nikandros was gone for about a month and a half, and in this time, Auguste had managed to not only get back on a horse, but also ride it a small distance away from the fort without totally succumbing to panic.

He was riding one of the horses, a black creature he’d taken to calling Blanche because apparently Akielons didn’t name their horses, when he spotted Nikandros’ retinue coming down the road. Auguste smiled, despite the way his knuckles were white from clutching the horse’s reins, and waited for Nikandros to get to him.

Nikandros smiled back and when he got close enough, he spoke: “If you’re out here, who’s watching my fort?”

“No one,” Auguste replied. “I sold it to Vask. You’ve caught me on my escape.”

Nikandros laughed and Auguste turned his horse to ride in with him. He looked thrilled. “You are outside.”

Auguste felt the pleased expression on his own face; ridiculous to be pleased at something that everyone else in all the kingdoms could do without such difficulty. “Welcome home.”

Nikandros kept looking between Auguste and road, his attention divided. “It’s nice to see you in the sun,” Nik said. “Hopefully, you’ll be less blindingly pale after some time.”

“Some would find my colouring alluring.”

“You’re right, I should sell you,” Nikandros replied.

They reached the stables and put their own horses away themselves, then they stepped back outside together. Nikandros was a man who was made to spend time outside; he looked road-weary but happy. The sun agreed with him much more than it ever had Auguste. They both stopped walking and gazed at each other for a long moment.

Then Nikandros laughed, and threw his arms around Auguste. “I am happy for you,” he said. Auguste realised, quite suddenly, that this was the first time he had been embraced in years. His fingers flexed against the urge to clutch at Nikandros, and hold him there so that he could fully remember how it felt to be near someone. Instead, he let them part and forced himself to smile, his heart beating painfully loud in his chest.

-

Auguste had become such a permanent guest to the fort that the soldiers no longer blinked to see him. He was lounging in the library one evening, reading a delightfully dull tome on Historical Akielon war maneuvers, while Nikandros stood at the big table in the center of the room and poured over a map.

He looked like a true commander like that, stance strong and eyes focused. 

There was a knock at the door. “Enter,” Nikandros called.

One of the soldiers, Aktis, came in. He was one of the best men that Nikandros commanded, by what Auguste had seen. He approached the table without a glance at Auguste. They started to talk about the latest village attacked by raiders.

Auguste looked back down to his book. It was Akielos’ problem, he had no need to listen in. He wondered what things were like for Laurent now. He would be halfway toward nineteen at this point, so surely he was talking a lead at his duties. Perhaps he had a whole room full of advisors who adored and respected him -- it wouldn’t surprise Auguste. 

People always used to praise Auguste as a charismatic leader, but that charisma had been hard won. He’d used everything he’d had to keep himself in the favour of the people, always training hard and being kind but firm; sometimes he had wondered if he even had a personality, beyond what he was putting on for the different groups of people he’d come across.

Laurent was different to that. All the young boys his age had been fighting to befriend him. Even when Laurent was being a brat, he’d had some natural quality that made him the kind of boy others wanted to impress. That kind of charm would have to have been honed into something formidable now that he was a young adult. It was nice to think about, even if perhaps Auguste only thought about it to ease the guilt of not being there yet.

“...prepare for the next attack,” Aktis’ voice, oddly low, caught Auguste’s attention.

They were sitting now, side by side at the table, Aktis leaning towards Nikandros to point at something on the map. Nikandros was watching the map, Aktis was watching Nikandros. Auguste frowned.

“They’re impossible to predict,” Nikandros said. “And we can hardly set up men across the entire border, especially when they’re coming in through Vere.” He sounded frustrated. He was a capable commander, but he was also only about twenty-six and he’d been given the most fraught province of Akielos to rule over.

“We will figure this out,” Aktis said, earnestly. “I believe in you, Kyros.”

Auguste stood up. “Have you considered meeting with some of the clans?” He approached the table to stand next to Nikandros.

“To bribe them?” Nikandros asked. “No, I will not reward them for attacking us.”

“All that attitude is going to get you is more dead villagers.” He knew upon saying it, that it was not his place to talk like this. It was too much; especially when he was only here and alive from Nikandros’ good will.

Nikandros didn’t seem offended though. “I will not treat with dishonourable men.”

“Most of them are women,” Auguste replied.

Nikandros gave him a look, and Auguste smiled despite himself.

“Fine,” Auguste continued. “I understand your point of view. But your villagers are innocent, and they are losing people and resources because -- as you admitted yourself -- the raids are proving unpredictable. I only suggest that you make yourself aware of the difference between your honour and your pride.”

“You are frustratingly well-spoken,” Nikandros said.

“I spent some time in Vask when I was younger,” Auguste told him, “I can help you come up with a plan.”

Aktis, who must of been having a hell of a time translating the mix of Veretian and Akielon that Auguste and Nik had taken to using with one another, implored his commander quietly, “He is Veretian. He could be deceiving us.”

“No, he’s a terrible liar,” Nikandros said, waving the thought away. He put a hand on Auguste’s arm and looked up at him. “I’m only considering this. Tell me more.”


	5. four

There was some kind of celebration that happened a few nights later. Auguste wasn’t sure of the specifics exactly, but it was some kind of tradition in Akielos and it involved a lot of wine and food and music. Auguste could vaguely recall it happening last year, but he’d been too uncomfortable with himself to join in. This time, Pallas insisted that he join -- although Auguste was fairly sure that that was just so he had the opportunity to tell his friends about Auguste breaking his nose.

They sat around the fire, the men all laughing and drinking and pulling women into their laps. The celebratory air was nice, although Auguste felt distant from it.

They had celebrations like this in Arles, although admittedly they were more elaborate. His favourite had been a masquerade celebration, where everyone hid their faces and enjoyed the relative freedom that that brought. The first time he had fucked a woman had been under the guise of a mask -- not that she hadn’t probably been entirely aware of who he was.

Auguste looked out at his companions, and tried to feel their happiness, but it felt too much like a reminder of how alone he felt here. He missed sitting among the courtiers and knowing everyone’s name. He missed riding through the fields with Laurent, laughing when they raced. He missed his parents. He didn’t want to be alone anymore, without people who loved him.

He thought perhaps that Nikandros was lonely too. He was a young man who had been given the honour of a great position in his kingdom, and yet that position had been to leave his home and try to help people who --for the most part -- were unhappy with being taken over and didn’t accept his authority. Auguste kept thinking of the way Nikandros had laughed outside the stables, truly happy to see him and delighted by his progress. He replayed the way it had felt to be embraced.

Despite his so-called distaste for Vere, Nik had learnt the language to better communicate with the people under his command, and was trying his best to keep them safe and alive if not happy. He was a good man, but he was also a step apart from everyone else. Even now, Auguste saw, Nikandros standing by the doors to the fort, watching his men rather than joining them.

Auguste didn’t want to be alone anymore. He found two tankards of disturbingly bitter wine and put himself on a path for Nikandros. He was sick of being the damaged Veretian. He was sick of feeling like every pat on the shoulder or brief moment of contact was something to savour. He just wanted to be a man.

“Here,” Auguste said, handing Nikandros a tankard. “You look as if we’re at a funeral procession.”

“I’m grieving for the servants and all the work they have ahead of them.” Still, he took a long sip of the wine.

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“It’s just the drink is terrible,” Auguste said. “I half expected you to pour it out.”

“Do I look too pampered to drink wine like the rest of my men?” He sounded amused. He took another drink of it to emphasise his point.

“It’s almost an insult to call it wine,” Auguste said. He smiled. He could do this; he could be conversational. Maybe even charming.

“You’re in good spirits.”

“Well, I’m certainly not drinking them.”

Nikandros laughed. That felt like a success. It always felt like a success when he managed it. Nikandros’ usual version of humour was to say a joke entirely deadpan and then act as if it wasn’t a joke at all. It was oddly endearing. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Not enough to stop me from being useful,” Auguste replied.

The night air was still warm with the residual heat of the day, and everyone around them was laughing and enjoying themselves. It was an infectious feeling. Nikandros was smiling at him, the most relaxed he ever was with his hair brushing against his shoulders and fondness in his eyes. He was beautiful. Auguste wasn’t used to thinking of men as beautiful, except that this was more a fact than an opinion. Auguste wanted to stop being alone, and in this moment, he wanted nothing more than to do that with Nikandros.

He stepped close to Nikandros, close enough that he could feel the warmth of him. Their difference in height was small, but at this distance it meant Auguste had to tilt his head up slightly. His intentions were clear and Nikandros was not stepping back. He leaned in.

Nikandros tilted his head away.

“Ah,” Auguste said. That was… disappointing. But he could deal with rejection gracefully.

He tried to move back, but Nikandros grasped his bicep to hold him in place. “No,” Nik said. “This is just very public.”

Auguste blinked. He’d been trying to kiss him, not fuck him on the doorstep. “The women here walk around bare-chested.”

Nikandros made an amused sound. “So do the men.”

Alright, so Nikandros was shy. Auguste could work with that. “Would you like to go inside with me, then?”

Nik looked at him for a long moment, and then he nodded. “Yes.” He took Auguste’s hand and led him back into the fort.

There were still people around, laughing and enjoying themselves, but Auguste forgot about them. All he could focus on was the warmth of Nikandros’ hand in his, and way his heartbeat was speeding up. 

Nikandros brought him to their room, his room, the room that they both slept in. Nik seemed so steady, Auguste wondered whether he felt any of what Auguste was going through. That thought was wiped away the second the door was closed, when Nik pushed Auguste up against it and kissed him.

Their lips met. It had an immediate effect on Auguste. He wanted to pull Nikandros closer, and keep him there forever. He wanted to push him away and hide his inevitable vulnerability. He made a noise, something pathetically longing against Nikandros’ mouth, and so, so gently, Nikandros pulled away. He pressed his forehead against Auguste’s.

“Is that alright?”

“Yes,” Auguste replied. One syllable and it came out shaky. He was clutching the fabric at Nik’s back with both hands. 

Just this embrace alone felt like the most intimate moment of his life. This, here, with Nikandros felt like something he could willing surrender himself to.

Nikandros kissed him again, on the corner of his lips, and on his cheek. He had Auguste’s face cupped in his hands and he kept pausing to look at him. Nikandros was the only person alive right now who saw Auguste as he was -- damaged, and hurt, and desperate to be more than that -- and he had such an open look of admiration and desire on his face that it was almost too much to gaze back at.

Nikandros’ fingertips skimmed lightly down his neck, where Auguste knew he’d been scarred by the collar that had chained him down. It was an acknowledgement. 

This time, Auguste surged forward into a kiss. The press of Nik’s tongue against his made him gasp, eyelashes fluttering. The taste of wine was so much sweeter from Nikandros’ mouth. He was already hard. 

They kissed and kissed, until he was desperate with it. The slide of their mouths was the only thing he knew. He was hazy. He gave no resistance when Nik pushed his head to the side and mouthed at his jaw. He wanted more.

Auguste, with what little presence of mind he had, clawed at the pin that held together Nikandros’ chiton. His hands were trembling. Metal clattered to the ground, and cloth fell between them. “Oh,” Auguste breathed. He ran his hands down Nik’s chest, broad and warm. His fingertips met with a nipple.

Nikandros bit him, lightly on the neck, right where flesh met scarring. It made Auguste jolt, his nerves buzzing a signal that went directly to his cock. He felt his own chiton fall. He hadn’t even noticed it being undone. He didn’t have a moment to feel self-conscious of the mess of scars that he was; Nikandros was already pushing forward against him until Auguste was truly pinned against the door. 

From chest to hips to thighs, their bodies met. Auguste felt wild with the press of skin, the possibilities before him. He could shed the layers of himself until he was just this. This was the act of finding pleasure in a body that had done nothing but betray him for the last five years. 

His hips were pushing forward of their own accord, seeking friction against the firmness of Nik’s body. Nikandros shoved back against him, almost rough with desire. Auguste felt the back of his head hit the wall. He was moaning; unhinged.

“Is this too much?”

“Yes,” Auguste panted. “Keep going. Please.”

“What do you want?”

“Fuck me,” Auguste said. He wanted it. He wanted to be pinned and devoured. He wanted Nikandros to take his body and make it into something worth having.

He felt Nikandros react to his words. “Yes,” Nikandros hissed. They were both breathing heavily.

“I want to feel you everywhere.” 

Nik thrusted his hips against Auguste in response. Auguste could hear himself, making little breathy noises, but he couldn’t stop. They were grinding against each other. Nikandros controlled the rhythm. Auguste couldn’t remember it ever feeling like this, even when he was an ill-experienced teen. They were grinding against each other, like animals, too desperate to stop or think or--

Auguste groaned. His entire body was alight, every nerve singing for contact. He couldn’t control himself -- he was so raw, and it had been so long -- and just this, was so much. Clumsily, he lifted a hand and pressed it against Nik’s chest. The gesture was feeble. He tried again with whatever strength he could muster, and Nikandros allowed himself to be pushed back.

Nik looked at him, concern in his eyes at first, but then the expression changed. Auguste could barely imagine what he looked like: flushed and panting, more wanton than a back alley whore. And all of that, just from rubbing himself up against Nik. 

Nikandros’ gaze was intense. As much as Auguste wanted to save what little dignity he had left, even more so was the need to feel the press of skin again. He didn’t even try to stop Nikandros from moving in; from taking his cock in hand and, very slowly, stroking. One point of contact and Auguste felt it in his entire body. He was trembling. It was embarrassing how affected he was.

“It’s alright,” Nik crooned. His hand kept moving. 

It was so much. “Don’t,” Auguste tried to make his mouth work, he was forgetting the words. He was speaking in Akielon automatically, “Don’t, I’ll--” he gasped out something, but the meaning was wrong.

Nikandros cupped the back of Auguste’s head with his free hand, and pressed their foreheads together. Sweetly, he whispered what Auguste had been trying to say. “You’ll come.”

Auguste did. His climax overwhelmed him. He shook against Nikandros, clutching at his waist. When he regained himself, Auguste swore.

Nikandros laughed, softly, and pulled Auguste into an embrace. A hand stroked soothingly down his back. “Was that...?”

Auguste lifted his head and kissed him, unrestrained. “You can act smug now,” Auguste said, breathlessly against his mouth, “but once I remember how to control my limbs, I’m going to…” He kissed Nikandros again. He couldn’t help it, that seemed more important than his train of thought.

“Yes?” Nikandros prompted, smiling. He was definitely smug. Intolerable. He was also beautiful. Auguste wanted to cling to him and never let go.

He had been so caught up in trying to become the same man he had used to be. But Nikandros had seen him at his worst. Had watched him persevere and called him strong for it. He'd given Auguste a kind of safety in his suffering. Suddenly, it didn’t seem so grave a crime to bare himself completely, just to this one person. His defences had less been shattered and more gently let down. Still muddled from his orgasm, and wanting so badly to be held, Auguste let himself fall against Nikandros. “Take me to bed,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thanks to [Mist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seek_The_Mist/works) for talking me through writing the sexy things. There's a lot of advice I didn't end up using (yet), so I might pull a Pacat and do a chapter 4.5 at some point hahaha.


	6. five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends!! Thank you for all the comments you've been leaving on this story; i love you all even though I'm generally rubbish at replying. I originally thought this story would be like, max 4 parts, except I am a fool and now it's looking closer to 12ish, so hang on ahahahaha.

It wasn’t as if he had expected a night of painfully intimate sex to fix everything that was wrong with him, but Auguste would have appreciated it if the night’s activities had at least exhausted him to the point of getting a proper sleep. Instead, he was awake as the first hints of light crossed the horizon. It was quiet, the fort’s reveleries had clearly run their course and it felt as if everyone in the kingdom was asleep but him. 

Auguste let his gaze fall to Nikandros, sleeping peacefully. The first time he had seen Nikandros sleeping, it had felt like a rare privilege to see his expression without the thoughtful notch to his brows or a frown. But now it had been long enough that Auguste could have made a list of his favourite expressions on Nik. Bemused, laughing, orgasming. Auguste allowed himself the moment to feel affection for all that he had witnessed as to who Nikandros was.

He didn’t think he’d ever been quite so sentimental about a lover before.

He ran his fingertips gently across Nik’s shoulder, admiring the strength of him. Nikandros’ eyes fluttered open. He saw his expression soften at the sight of Auguste, and then his gaze flickered to the lack of light coming in from the window and he made a displeased sound. “No,” he groaned. “We’re going back to sleep.” 

He rolled over onto his stomach, throwing an arm across Auguste’s chest along the way. Auguste smiled, oddly charmed to see him acting so petulantly.

“Don’t you have drills to be getting to?”

Nik closed his eyes. “No one else in the fort is going to be awake until midday.”

“Ah, I get it. You’ve seen me naked, and now you’re comfortable enough to show me your lazy side.”

Nikandros blindly moved his hand until he found Auguste’s mouth to put it over. “Too many words.”

“Sorry,” Auguste replied, voice muffled. “I’ll be good.”

Nikandros dropped his hand back to Auguste’s chest, and Auguste held it there. There was a long pause of silence. Auguste waited long enough for the tension to leave Nik.

“Anyway, what do you think--”

“No!” Nikandros said, but he was smiling. “You said you’d be good.”

“I’m Veretian. It was obviously a lie.”

Nikandros laughed. “Why are you so talkative this morning?”

“I talk more when I’m happy,” Auguste said. “My brother is the opposite; he talks when he’s nervous. He wouldn’t shut up the first time I put him on a pony by himself. It was hilarious.”

“Fine,” Nik said. “I give up. Keep speaking so I stay awake.”

“What should I speak of?”

“Yourself.”

For a moment, he wondered what Nik’s reaction would be if he just came out and told him that he was the dead prince of Vere. Except their relationship wasn’t about roles, and he liked that. They were just men with each other, ranks didn’t exist. Auguste tried to think of something to say. His mind was blank.

Nikandros, noticing his silence, prompted him: “What did you like doing? Before Marlas.”

“Fighting,” Auguste said, honestly. “I was very smug about how good I was. And I liked-- I like horses. I broke two of them in myself, when my brother was about ten, because he loved them too. I thought it would be nice for us to have horses from the same lineage.”

An Akielon had cut his horse down during the battle, and Auguste had had to keep fighting on foot. He didn’t want to think about that. Except all of his memories from before were tinged with pain now.

“My mother was wonderful,” he said, latching on to a new topic. “I grew my hair long because when she was sick, I would lie beside her sometimes and she’d run her fingers through it. Sometimes she could barely talk she was so sick, but she’d still rest her hand atop my head -- like she was the one comforting me.” He’d never spoken of that before. It had been too hard, the wound of her death still fresh when he’d gone off to war, and he’d been expected to keep a strong front. The crown prince had no time to mourn when he was meant to keep his people in good spirits.

Nik’s eyes had opened now. He was watching Auguste with something tender in his gaze. 

Auguste blinked. “Tell me about your family,” he said. He needed to regather himself.

Nikandros understood. He started to speak, his voice low, “I have four sisters. One younger and three older. I was raised by my mother and grandmother; my father died in a skirmish. He was one of Theomedes-Exalted’s most trusted generals. When I turned thirteen, the King offered to have me fostered in the capital, out of respect for my father, so that I could learn from the best.”

“Where are your sisters now?”

“The eldest two are married,” Nikandros said. “Diantha chose to stay with mother, she doesn’t care for marriage. And Helena ran off to Vask -- she’s the adventurous one.”

“If she’s the adventurous one, then what do they call you?”

“You know me more recently than they do,” he said. “How would you label me?”

“Hmm,” Auguste pretended to think about it. “I think I need to get to know you more before I decide.”

Nikandros smiled. He looked so affectionate, and Auguste was suddenly delighted by their early morning ease with each other. He had to kiss him. Nikandros let him, eyes closing while his mouth opened. Auguste could feel the moment turn joyful with the confirmation that he was allowed this.

“I thought you wanted us to get up and train,” Nikandros murmured.

“I do,” Auguste said. “Convince me otherwise.”

-

Time passed. Auguste had been correct when he’d thought that he and Nik behaved like lovers before they had even had sex with each other. The only difference between now and before was that Nik seemed more prone to smiling.

Auguste was too.

-

They’d spent so much time together that Nik was well attuned to Auguste’s moods. He seemed able to sense when Auguste wanted to be touched (although to be fair, that was more often than not). He’d also grown used to Auguste’s occasional dark moods, when even the thought of rising from bed seemed like a monumental effort. Usually, Nik would react to those by pressing a kiss to Auguste’s shoulder before he left for his duties, and making sure to send someone up with food every few hours until he could return for the evening.

He could also, unfortunately, tell when Auguste wanted to talk about something equally as much as he didn’t want to at all.

Nikandros was reading his correspondence quietly, but Auguste could see him casting glances over at him every minute or two. Finally, Nikandros gave up the pretense and put his latest letter down.

“It’ll be easier if you just tell me and then we can sort it out,” he said.

“Sort what out?” Auguste knew he was being difficult but he didn’t care. Judging by the raised eyebrow, Nikandros was aware of that too.

“I know something is troubling you,” Nikandros replied. “Would it make it easier if I tried to guess?”

“I’d rather not know exactly what you think of me, thank you.”

“I think the world of you,” Nikandros said, easily. “If you need reassurances, I’m more than happy to give them. I think you’re singular. You’re intelligent, kind, and determined. You’re very attractive as well, obviously. I particularly like your eyes, and your hands, and the general--” he gestured at Auguste vaguely, “--shape of you. And your strength is--”

Auguste felt himself wince. He couldn’t help it. Nikandros noticed, and stopped speaking in order to study his expression. Auguste looked away, even though he knew that was a tell in itself.

“Or,” Nikandros said, slowly, and Auguste could practically see him shaping the thought as he said it. “Is it that you aren’t happy with the way things are between us now? If you want us to go back to how we were--”

“No!” Auguste interrupted him quickly. He didn’t want to let Nik continue with such a terrible thought. “It’s not that at all. I just…”

Nikandros was attentively quiet -- he was wonderful, really -- and Auguste took the pause to try to find the words to voice his worries.

“I’m concerned that I’ll never be able to overcome this enough to return to my home,” Auguste admitted. “I feel guilty that I don’t hate it here, and that you make me happy.”

“There’s no shame in taking the time you need,” Nikandros said.

“I wish I felt like that.”

“Would your brother want you to be miserable? Surely he’d forgive you for finding moments of happiness. Have you considered sending him a letter now that you’re doing better?”

Auguste sighed. “He won't believe it. Even if he does, what if the person who locked me away in the first place finds out that I’m alive? The more I think of it, the more difficult my options become.”

“We can take it one day after the other. You’ve made so much progress, Auguste, and you’re going to make so much more. You will see your brother again.” He sounded so earnest. It was astounding that he saw Auguste so favourably.

“There’s something else I feel guilty for,” Auguste said.

Nikandros, forever understanding, took Auguste’s hand in his. 

Auguste swallowed. “Whenever I think of leaving, I am now torn that I can’t ask you to come with me.”

He knew his words affected Nik, for instead of addressing this, he made a rare deflection, “Surely you left behind scores of lovers in Vere.”

“None of them were like you. The pets felt more transactional, and the women were a rarity because of our views on bastardry. I thought perhaps I was saving my heart for my future wife.”

Nikandros’ hand tightened around his.“I’ve always been aware that you would leave one day. When you do, I will be thankful that we had the opportunity to have this, no matter how short the time was.”

Auguste closed his eyes. “It is no wonder you were made Kyros so young. You are the most selfless man I’ve ever met.”

“I want plenty of things,” Nikandros replied, smiling sadly, “I just know I cannot always have them.”

Nikandros continued with his letters when it became clear that Auguste needed some time to process that. He was grateful for where he was now and what he had, but it was true that he wouldn’t be satisfied with this forever. His heart clung to the idea of returning to who he had once been, and then returning to his brother, and he had a foolish imagining of them riding together again. It was hard to picture Laurent as the adult he surely was though, and so his mind’s version of Laurent was still a sweet little boy who was forever stepping on Auguste’s heels.

Nikandros cleared his throat. “Auguste,” he said.

Auguste looked to him. 

He held up the letter in his hand. “I’ve news that there’s been another raid on a village, by a predominantly male clan. They set a building on fire when they were done.”

Auguste frowned. “They haven’t done that before.”

“No,” Nik agreed. “It was the village you were taken to. And I’m told that fire was lit on the building that I found you in.”

That was… well it definitely was hard to believe that the Vaskians had decided to burn down a single house in a small village that just coincidentally happened to be where Auguste had been captured. Especially when Nik was insistent that Vere had these clans in their pocket.

“Perhaps whoever paid to have me kept down there decided I wasn’t useful after all,” Auguste said.

“I don’t like this,” Nik replied. “I’ll ask one of the men I send there to find out if they went inside the building to look for you before they burnt it. Additionally, if we can find out who paid the tribe for this particular offense, we might be able to discover who locked you in there to start with.”

-

Nothing ended up coming of any of the queries that Nikandros made about the Vaskian’s over the next few weeks. Auguste wasn’t happy to think that whoever had left him in that cell would have left him to suffer there for almost five years only to murder him in the end, had he not been rescued. He had so many concerns that it wasn’t too hard to put the matter at the back of his mind for now. Other than that, things were better.

Nikandros had taken Auguste’s concerns into consideration, and he was making an effort to be available for attempted walks into the village when Auguste could bring himself to do it. This was the main problem that he had to face, and the worst one obstructing him from returning home -- his inability to go far from the fort without panic barging upon him. It was more manageable, he found, when he was riding rather than walking. Horses tended to be sensitive to their riders, and so the animals would often signal to him his anxiety before he had even noticed it for himself. Then he could try to get a hold of himself as early as possible. 

Auguste was also trying to take Nik’s point of view into consideration, and telling himself to be grateful rather than guilty of the temporary happiness that he had gained here. It was difficult, but Nik made it easier.

He came to Auguste, one afternoon, and urged him to follow down to the stables, where he presented Auguste with a gift.

“What is this?” Auguste asked, delighted. He approached the horse slowly, reaching out to brush his fingers across her mane. She was beautiful, almost gold in the light.

“A horse,” Nik replied, dryly. But he was smiling.

“She’s wonderful,” Auguste replied. “Thank you. Now I’ll be able to rob you and steal off into the night in style.”

“At least now you can stop commandeering my horses.”

“I refuse,” Auguste said. “They all deserve my attention; you didn’t even name any of them.”

“Yes, I heard about the names you gave them.”

Auguste grinned and turned back to his lover. “Did you like them?”

“You named a black horse Blanche,” Nikandros said, deadpan. “A spotted mare Cow, and my favourite one--” Nik stopped talking, clearly fighting the urge to smile.

Auguste took pity on him. “Madame Claudette. It’s a perfectly respectable name for a Kyros’ steed.”

In his fifth year, Laurent had named one of the kitchen cats Wolf, which he had thought very amusing. Auguste had been powerless but to make it a tradition for them to give all the animals peculiar names.

“I’m sure Vere finds such behaviour very charming,” Nik replied.

“Obviously you do as well, for you’ve given me another one to name.” He pretended to regard his golden gift. “I think Midnight will suit her perfectly.”

“You’re unbearable,” Nikandros said. But he had finally given up all pretenses that he wasn’t laughing, so Auguste was willing to kiss him anyway.

It wasn’t just a gift, Auguste understood that. Nikandros was giving him an acknowledgement that one day, Auguste would saddle this horse and ride back to Vere. But until then, they had each other.


	7. six

The next stretch of time was a series of moments. 

Nikandros offered to teach Auguste to wrestle. Auguste already knew the Veretian equivalent of the sport, but Nik seemed to enjoy sharing his culture and Auguste enjoyed that it was more… intimate than the version he knew.

He could now make it as far as the local village without feeling the open air choke him, although the success of this varied. The only constant was that even the idea of getting out on the road towards Vere filled him with dread. 

Nikandros went to Ios on another visit, and came back looking troubled, but he didn’t offer any explanations why. 

Auguste’s hair grew long enough to need a trim. He liked it brushing his shoulders, long enough to shroud them in a curtain of privacy when he climbed atop Nikandros and kissed his mouth.

Laurent turned twenty. 

-

Auguste was sitting in the hall with Nikandros and Pallas, as they discussed Pallas’ recent bout of border duty. The young man was certainly a rising star in the army. 

The messenger arrived looking the exact mix of distraught and terrified that told Auguste he was not there with good news. Nikandros stood to greet him. He looked grim, but not surprised. He must have been expecting whatever this was.

“You have news from the capital,” Nikandros said, prompting the man when he didn’t immediately speak.

“Yes,” the man said. “Theomedes-Exalted is dead. His illness took him peacefully.”

Nik closed his eyes and bowed his head for a moment, before looking back to the messenger. “Has Damianos-Exalted sent for me?” 

It was a shock to hear the Akielon prince referred to as that. But he would be king now, Auguste realised. The man who had cut him down on the field and thus caused what had become of him. He had avoided thinking of Damianos beyond what was necessary, but if Damianos was now on the throne, and Laurent less than a year away from inheriting, it was suddenly all the more important that Auguste make his return to Arles. 

The messenger shifted nervously. “A band of dissenters were prepared,” he spoke looking at the ground. “There was a small coup over the news of the King’s death, and Prince Damianos was among the casualties.”

Alarmed, Auguste looked to Nikandros. Nik stood perfectly still. “Damianos is injured?” Nik asked, without inflection. 

“He is dead,” the messenger murmured. “Kastor-Exalted has had all the dissenters executed; he has called for your presence at the Kingsmeet for his crowning.”

Pallas made a wounded sound, stumbling away from the table, and then there was an awful moment of silence in the hall, where each of them dealt with what they had just heard. 

Finally, Nik spoke, “I don’t understand.” 

The messenger had gone pale. “Kastor-Exalted--”

“No,” Nikandros interrupted him almost viciously. He took a step towards the man. “What dissenters? No man would dare.”

For a moment, Auguste thought Nikandros was going to harm the man. The messenger obviously thought so too, if the way he stuttered was any indication. “T-the prince’s private guard. They were all punished.”

“His guards!” Nikandros made a sound of disbelief. “And his household? I suppose you expect me to believe his slaves were in on it too.”

“The slaves killed themselves. Their grief--”

“Shut up,” Nikandros ordered. “They all love him. They wouldn’t--” His fists clenched. Nik turned, suddenly, and Auguste was moving towards him the second he saw his expression.

He may not have had any love for the Akielon royal family, but Nikandros had spoken of Damianos with nothing but affection and respect, and he now looked as if he’d been physically dealt a blow.

Auguste grabbed him by the shoulders. “Breathe,” Auguste said, a direction Nik had given him many times before. Nik complied. Auguste turned his head to look at the messenger. He needed to deal with this.

Nikandros would have to answer the summons to the capital and Auguste would not be able to go with him. “Go to General Makedon next and invite him to meet at the port here to sail to Ios.” Auguste hadn’t met General Makedon but Nik went to see him sometimes and seemed to have a comradery with him. He would be company for the trip. 

The messenger, who was probably relieved to just be allowed to leave, nodded and darted from the room.

Auguste looked to Pallas next. “Put together a suitable party to accompany the Kyros to Ios,” he said. “Start the preparations to sail south. See Aktis if you need help. You leave tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Pallas sniffed. He was crying quietly, but he steeled himself and made for the door.

“I can’t,” Nikandros said, blankly. “I can’t go and--” He tried to move away, but Auguste held him in place.

“You are the Kyros,” Auguste told him, sternly. “You have to put forth a strong face in times of chaos. Can you hold yourself together for long enough to get to your rooms?”

Nik blinked, and then he nodded. Accepting his word, Auguste took that as his cue to lead them both towards their private quarters. 

-

The first thing Nikandros said, when they were safely behind closed doors, was: “It was Kastor.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I can,” Nik insisted. “I saw. I’ve always seen the way he is with Damen. It’s gotten worse lately. I told Damen to be wary but he thinks I’m being paranoid.” Nikandros paused and then, in an awful voice, “he thought I was being paranoid.”

“Nikandros.” Auguste held out a hand.

Nik didn’t see it. “He’s dead,” he whispered, and then he broke.

-

They didn’t sleep that night. After going through a heart-wrenching bout of crying, Nikandros had fallen into an almost wild state of productivity. He’d sent out letters to those under his power that needed to be informed of the news, then he found Pallas and took over the preparations for his trip back to Ios. He seemed to have decided that the only way not to think about his fallen prince was to fill his mind so entirely with other tasks that he didn’t have the time. By the time dawn had broken, Nikandros was standing on the battlement, watching the arrival of horses over the border - Makedon with a small contingent of men.

Auguste watched him stand there, the early sunlight highlighting the natural angles of his face, and also his grim expression. Nikandros was an honest man and he had refused to waver on the idea that the bastard prince was behind Damianos’ murder. Auguste felt a frisson of fear that his lover would confront Kastor with his suspicions. If Kastor truly had arranged such a thing, killing Nikandros to keep him quiet would be of no difficulty to him.

“Don’t do anything irrational,” Auguste told him. “If Kastor has the power to kill Damianos, then he can do whatever he wants to you. Find out what you need to, but come back and we can find a solution together.”

Nikandros nodded without even turning around.

“Nikandros,” Auguste insisted. “Promise me.”

He did not. “I don’t have a plan,” Nikandros said, softly. “In all the ways I’ve considered my life going, I’ve never imagined a time without Damianos.”

“You still have Delpha,” Auguste told him. “You still have men who respect you; people who need your leadership. You still have me. All I ask is that you wait until your head isn’t so clouded with grief before you decide whether to act against Kastor.”

“There will never be a day that I don’t grieve for him.”

“As long as you are still here, alive, to grieve.” Auguste embraced him from behind, dropping his head to rest against the sturdy planes of Nik’s back. “Come back to me.”  
-

For the two weeks that Nikandros was at the capital, Auguste felt a sudden empathy with his mother for every time she had had to watch her husband (and later, son) go off into dangerous situations. Nikandros was an intelligent, rational man, but there had been a quality to him before his departure that set Auguste on edge. His anger for Kastor had burned in such an open way that Auguste feared Nikandros was only marching to the capital so that he could draw a sword on the new king and accuse him of treason. 

Along with his concern was the growing certainty that Auguste had to return to Arles as soon as possible. He would wait until Nikandros was safely back in Delpha with his men to support him, and then he would leave.

-

The contingent returned three days early and in the evening. Auguste, who had been dressing for bed (in the Veretian style garments that Nik had unquestioningly commissioned after Auguste had once admitted a dislike for having his scars on display), made his way immediately to the entrance of the fort in his shirtsleeves.

Auguste watched, an observer on the periphery. Nikandros had unmounted his horse and was commanding men to their places. Beside him was another man, a commander of some sorts by the look of it. He was a large man, and he had a scar down one side of his face. He looked every inch the kind of barbarian that Auguste’s father used to decry.

Eventually, the orders had all been made, and Nikandros and the commander made their way to where Auguste was waiting. Nik’s expression was severe. Auguste remembered when the call had reached the frontline at Marlas that his father had fallen. He had had to bury his feelings, the insurmountable grief that he still shied away from, in order to lead his men. Nik’s expression reminded him of that. Leading through grief was an unfortunate duty.

“How was the fort?” Nikandros asked. 

“You left a Veretian in charge?” The commander said. 

“Uneventful,” Auguste replied. “You’re back early.”

“Is this the bed-warmer I heard the men talking about then?” The commander cut in.

“Can we do this tomorrow, Makedon,” Nik did not phrase it like a question. He sounded tired and fraught. The general, the infamous Makedon, seemed at least partially sympathetic for he put a broad hand on Nik’s shoulder and jostled him slightly. 

“Tomorrow, we plan,” he agreed. “I assume my rooms are the same ones as always, ha ha.” And then he was leaving them.

Nikandros took Auguste’s arm in a tight grip and led him away too, towards their rooms.

“What happened?” Auguste asked, once the door was closed behind them.

Nikandros shook his head. “I missed you.” He kissed him. Auguste let him. There was a tinge of desperation to the kiss that, for once, wasn’t coming from Auguste.

“I had half feared you would have left too, while I was gone,” Nik admitted. 

“I..” This didn’t seem like the time to confess that he was planning on leaving soon. How could he when Nik was looking at him like he was the answer he was looking for.

But Nik was perceptive. “I know,” he said. “But can we discuss it later. Right now I just… I missed you.”

-

He woke up alone in bed. The sky was still entirely dark. Auguste sighed. He could see the telltale flicker of candlelight in the adjoining room, and rose to follow it. 

Nikandros was sitting on the balcony, one hand clenched into fist. He had come out here either for space, or to prevent accidentally waking Auguste up. Honestly, Auguste could not care that Damianos was dead, but he was pained to see how clearly devastated his lover was. 

“It’s late,” Auguste murmured.

Nikandros looked up at him, surprised, and his expression was so openly vulnerable that Auguste’s heart was heavy with it. He sat down on the bench and let their shoulders brush. 

It took Nik a few moments to speak. “The capital was in chaos,” he said. “So many slaves and guards and people have been killed, and Kastor stood in the middle of it all, pretending as if he was wounded from it. He answered every question until the men started to pledge themselves to him.”

“Did you?”

Nikandros looked at him. “I will not,” he said. “I left once it was clear which men would be too cowardly to question Kastor’s right to rule. Makedon is with me. Kastor is busy trying to cement his control on Ios, it will take some time for him to realise I don’t plan to bow to him. For now, he acts as though I am too clouded by grief for reason.” Nikandros scoffed, bitterly. “He tried to bond with me over memories of Damen.”

“If you do not bow to him, he will try to take you down too.” Even though he said it, he knew Nik would not even consider standing down. Auguste had known what was coming the moment they had found out Damianos was dead. Nikandros’ loyalty extended even beyond death.

“It may soon be time for you to return to Vere,” he said. “This isn’t something you should be stuck in the middle of. I will provide what you need to make the journey.”

“What then, Nik?” Auguste asked. “You’ll let yourself die fighting a cause for a dead man? You don’t have to do this.”

Nikandros reached out his hand, picking up something from the chair beside him. He held it out. It was a pin, fashioned intricately into the shape of a lion. It was obviously Damianos’. Auguste felt his heart clench. “Yes. I do,” Nikandros replied.

-

That was it then. Auguste would finally make his return to Vere, and Nikandros would attempt a coup against his new king. Out of all the ways for them to inevitably part, this was Auguste’s least favourite. 

They had gone silently back to bed after their conversation, and Nikandros had slept easier now that he’d decided on his course of action. The next morning he was still as resolved that Kastor had to pay for his betrayal. Auguste knew better than to try and talk him out of it.

Auguste walked into the library that afternoon and unrolled a map of Akielos on the table. Nikandros looked up at him, a question in his eyes.

“I will return to Vere,” Auguste told him. “But I am good at strategy, and I will not leave until I am sure I am leaving you with the best chance of success. Tell me everything.”


	8. seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter, but the next one will be longer than usual so.... forgive me??? Also 0% proofread, I live in ignorance.
> 
> Anyway, I love you all and thank you for the continual support, I am determined to finish this baby!!

After long days of strategizing, Auguste came into their bedroom to see Nikandros, who was sitting at the table and frowning at the letter in his hands. It seemed to be the season for terrible missives.

Auguste picked an orange from the bowl and leaned against the table. “Has something else happened?”

Oddly, Nik hesitated. Auguste gave him a curious look and glanced at the opened seal on the letter. He jolted. “That’s--”

“From Crown Prince Laurent of Vere, yes.”

The image set in wax was incredibly familiar to Auguste. He remembered pressing his signet ring into his little brother’s hands before his final battle at Marlas. He’d wanted Laurent to hold it for him, a reminder that he would be back soon.

Unthinkingly, Auguste slipped the paper from Nik’s hands, who didn’t resist.

“He claims to have proof of Kastor’s treachery. He wants the use of my army in return,” he told Auguste, as Auguste read those exact words.

He took it in. “What need has he of your aid? He has his own.” It had to be serious if he was asking the likes of Akielos for help.

Auguste looked down at the page with more interest, as if there might be a hidden meaning in the words written. He and Laurent used to play at writing secret messages to each other all the time. Laurent had been incredible at figuring them out. 

“Border issues?” Nikandros suggested, thoughtfully. “Trouble with the Regent, perhaps.”

“No,” Auguste discarded that idea. “The Regent is family. And he’s never seemed particularly ambitious. Something with Vask, maybe?”

“I doubt it. He will be old enough to ascend soon. Are you sure his uncle would be so willing to give up the power he has held for the last six years?” 

Auguste thought of Prince Kastor, desperate enough to rule that he would murder his own brother. He frowned. It almost didn’t bare thinking about that the same might happen to Laurent. Surely the entirety of Arles adored Laurent as their future king by now. But no matter the reason, if Laurent needed help, Auguste would make sure he got it.

“Will you agree to meet with him?”

“This could be a trap,” Nik said. “Kastor knows the north is fractured. Getting rid of Makedon and myself would be advantageous to him. More so if it happens with us colluding with Veretians.”

“But you have to go,” Auguste insisted. “What if Laurent is in trouble?”

“That isn’t my concern.”

“But what about Damianos? Kastor will certainly get away with everything if you don’t have proof of his actions; surely just the chance to make him face justice is enough.”

Nikandros frowned, and for once Auguste had the sudden sense that he was the source of his lover’s sudden displeasure.

“Are we going to talk about it or are we still pretending?” Nik asked, finally.

Auguste could feel his heart beating in his chest. “About what?”

“Auguste,” Nikandros said. “Why are you so insistent that I help the Prince?”

Auguste forced himself to maintain eye contact. “I…” He swallowed. Nikandros knew. Or he at least suspected, it wasn’t as if Auguste had truly tried to hide his identity. Laurent is my brother, Auguste thought and wished that he could say it.

“You speak only of two Veretians with any love,” Nikandros said. “Prince Laurent, and your brother -- who you’ve never named. Your father died at Marlas, your mother shortly before that. You are blond, and intelligent, and beautiful, and I’ve seen you knock down all of my best soldiers on the practice grounds. Did you really think I wouldn’t figure it out?”

“That isn’t-- Auguste said, quietly, “I didn’t want to think of it at all. I’m not the person that I was, and I’m trying to come back to myself but--”

“You’re never going to be who you were,” Nikandros said, and Auguste felt it like a slap. “You’ve changed. There’s no going back. There never is, for anyone. Stop acting like you have to reverse time to be a person worth knowing, and start looking at the person you are.”

Even when cross with him, Nikandros was still trying to help him. Auguste looked away, “You’re upset that I lied; I understand--”

“No,” Nikandros interrupted. “If I hadn’t figured out who you were by now, that would be on my own stupidity. I’m upset that you’re pretending as if you think I should risk everything to help the Prince for my own benefit. Speak plainly to me, Auguste. I do not care to be manipulated.”

There was a heavy silence between them, where they simply looked at each other. Auguste took the chance to gather himself, and then he spoke. “He is my brother,” he stated, finally. “I have to go to him now, no matter what. But I would appreciate it if you answered his letter, and came as well.”

For a moment, he thought Nik would refuse. But he just sighed. “I’ll send the messenger back tonight, and confirm where we are to meet.”

-

“Why is the Veretian here?” Makedon asked.

“If you were so upset by having a Veretian in your presence, you shouldn’t have taken Delfeur in the first place.”

“Delpha was Akielon soil long before it was Veretian.”

“And before that it was Artesian,” Nikandros said. “That isn’t our concern, at the moment.”

“Yes,” Makedon leaned back in his chair. He had the casual disposition of a man not used to hearing orders. “What is our concern?”

“I have received correspondence from Crown Prince Laurent of Vere.” Nik handed over the letter. “He claims to have evidence of Kastor’s betrayal.”

Makedon sat forward, eyes keen on the paper. He looked back to Nikandros. “The Veretian shouldn’t be here while we discuss this.”

“That’s my judgement to make,” Nik replied evenly. 

“He must be talented at bedplay to dull your senses like this.”

Auguste couldn’t imagine one of his own men ever speaking to him like this. If they had, he would perhaps have challenged them to a duel — his prowess in the field had made that a very successful threat. Nikandros, on the other hand, was in a delicate situation. Makedon was a commander in his own right and also had a very large private army that he could march off with on a whim. 

Also he was built like a fort and was perhaps a better fighter.

Nikandros didn’t not get mad or challenge Makedon. He simply asked, “Do you speak Veretian?”

Makedon scoffed. “Why would I waste my time?”

“Neither do I, not fluently,” Nikandros said, which was a definite downplay of his own abilities. “So perhaps we need someone who is well versed in both languages, and has knowledge of Vere itself; considering the importance of what we will be doing there.”

“That doesn’t mean he has to know everything we discuss.”

“Auguste has shown a remarkable amount of loyalty, courage, and intelligence in the last three years. I trust him.”

Makedon, despite being at least two decades Nik’s senior, seemed to accept him at his word in this. Still, he turned to give Auguste an irritated look. “I don’t trust you.” 

Auguste blinked. “Heartbreaking,” he said, dryly.

“Let’s continue,” Nikandros said, pointing to the map on the table before them. “There are several forts on the border where the prince may request to meet. We should use this time to make a plan for potential routes.”

-

 

When the messenger returned, he looked as if he hadn’t stopped riding in days. He pressed a ring -- which had once belonged to Auguste -- into Nikandros’ palm, and simply said, “He will wait for you at Ravenel.”

Nikandros nodded, and thanked the man, sending him off to eat and rest. Then he handed the ring to Auguste. 

Auguste looked down at the metal and felt an indescribable tugging in his heart to know that his brother had held this very ring a matter of weeks ago. It suddenly made everything seem more real and urgent. The thread of anxiety at the thought of leaving hadn’t lessened, but he would manage it. He had to. 

“We ride tomorrow,” Nikandros said. He sounded as determined as Auguste felt. Nik had taken the death of Damianos hard -- it still was hard for him -- but he’d strengthened lately in the face of a clear course of action. He was a good commander and he would make a great ally for Laurent. 

“Yes,” Auguste agreed, giving back the ring. 

Soon, they would be in Vere. And then the time would approach for his relationship with Nik to end. Just because it was inevitable, didn’t mean Auguste was fine with it.

“Auguste,” Nik said, quietly. “You haven’t seen your brother for almost a third of his life. He will have changed.”

“I know,” Auguste agreed. “He’s still my brother.”

“If we can’t come to a proper agreement...” Nik continued, “I have to put Akielos first. It is my home.”

“He is my brother,” Auguste repeated. He cupped Nik’s cheek, and was pleased that Nik still leaned into the gesture. “We’re soldiers. We both know that there are things we need to protect over ourselves.”

“That doesn’t mean…”

“It’s like you said, I’m grateful that we could have this, no matter how it ends.” Nikandros pressed their foreheads together, and Auguste let them stand like that for a long moment before he continued, “But… it’s not over yet.”


	9. eight

“You’ve barely slept in three days,” Nikandros frowned.

Auguste, who certainly felt every hour of sleep he wasn’t getting, merely nodded.

“Is there something I can do?” he asked. “I can hardly present you to your brother looking as if I’ve been torturing you.”

“It’s not that bad,” Auguste replied, absently touching the scar at his neck. 

“We still have over a week until the rendezvous.”

Auguste sighed. He knew all of this. It wasn’t as if he had stopped sleeping on purpose. All of the people constantly bustling around them, the knowledge that soon he would have to face his brother, and the awful certainty that Laurent would be disappointed, were keeping him constantly tense and anxious. Just the simple fact of being outside, in so much open air, kept him on edge. He couldn’t sleep, that was true, but he also felt as if he were barely functioning at all. 

“It’s just been a while since I’ve had so many people around me.”

Nikandros looked out across the field, where the men were setting up camp for the night, and his frown grew even more pronounced. “There’s not much to be done about that.”

“I know,” Auguste agreed. He put a hand on Nik’s shoulder, as if he was the one who needed comforting. Maybe he was. His king was dead and his lover was basically useless. “It’s fine. Eventually I’ll have to sleep.”

-

They were passing by the outskirts of a small town near Ravenel, when it became clear that for Auguste this trip was nigh unmanageable. His hands were slightly shaking, and it was hard to concentrate with the few, too brief snatches of sleep that he’d been managing to get. He knew Nik was worried, but also that Nikandros had many, many other things to be worried about. One of his scouts had failed to check in, and when a small troop had been sent out to check - they’d found his body, slain by a river. It was the last thing they had needed, when the Akielons were already hesitant about being on Veretian soil.

By the time they’d set up camp for the evening, Auguste felt as if he had spent the entire day barely managing to hold off another of his panics. He stood beside his horse, Midnight, and leaned his forehead against her mane, trying to calm himself. She’d been a little hard to control during the ride too, feeding off of his unease.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, but eventually Nik found him.

“We’ll be back on the road at dawn,” Nik said. “It’s not far yet.”

He couldn’t even focus on the thought of seeing Laurent so soon. It felt almost as if he’d spent all of these years recovering only to lose all of his progress in the space of a few days. “That doesn’t help,” he managed to say.

There was a pause. “We passed a town not long ago,” Nikandros said. “We can’t stop if we want to make the rendezvous on time. But perhaps if you needed an extra day or two to gather yourself, I could ride with you to find an inn tonight.”

That idea was so appealing that he felt an onslaught of guilt. “I can’t,” he managed. “Laurent needs--”

“My army,” Nikandros said, cutting him off. “And he needs your help only if you’re in a position to give it. I can make nice with your brother for a day until you show up.”

He was so tempted but, “What if I’m too weak to keep going?”

“You’ve been proving for the last three years that you’re not. Longer than that even. But I will send someone to collect you if you take any longer. Or I’ll ask your brother to send someone.”

“I…”

“You need a break. There’s no shame in that.”

“You are so eager to have me leave,” he knew it wasn’t fair to say, but he couldn’t help but get that impression.

Nikandros sighed, and Auguste felt a hand on his shoulder. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you this bad,” he said. “And I’ll admit that I’m worried my concern for you will affect my leadership.”

He told himself that it was almost flattering that Nikandros cared that much to even need to worry about such a thing. And, Auguste remembered, this wasn’t just about him reuniting with his brother. It was about Nikandros finding either vengeance or peace after the death of his close friend. It was about Laurent receiving the aid he needed. Auguste could never forgive himself if he was the one who got in the way of that.

Slowly, he pulled away from Midnight to look at Nikandros, expression earnest, and he relented. “I’ll be one day behind you,” he said. “No more than that.”

Nik nodded, some of the tension leaving his frame. 

It might even be easier for him to ride alone, a little less terrible than the bustling awareness that he felt in this crowd.

Even just the idea of time in enclosed behind four walls was enough to get him back to the town. He refused Nik’s offer of accompaniment though. Auguste knew that Nik would give up his own rest for Auguste’s sake willingly, but that didn’t mean that he should.

It was late by the time that he found an inn, but all it took was a show of coin and he was sent to a bedroom with a tray of food. Auguste sat down on the bed and tried to convince himself that tomorrow would be better. He just needed a chance to rest.

-

Despite his best efforts, he didn’t manage to sleep much. But he had managed enough that now he felt substantially better than he had the previous evening. The innkeeper, a older man who seemed friendly but gruff, offered him some bread for the road when Auguste came down to bid him farewell.

“Thank you,” Auguste said, surprisingly touched by the random gesture. He felt a sudden swelling of love for his people. It had been so long since he had been in Veretian territory.

The innkeeper waved off his thanks. “You look like you need it more than I do,” he said. His eyes flicked to the sword strapped to Auguste’s side. “You should be careful on the road, boy. We’re getting all sorts of news about trouble.”

Auguste frowned. “What kind of trouble?”

“Young Henri says he saw Akielons passing through yesterday,” he told him. “And just this morning we had a soldier from the Prince’s army stumble in. He was talking about an ambush.”

A cold stream of horror washed over him. “Where is he?” Auguste demanded. 

-

The soldier had been injured, and seen to by a physician well enough that he was barely lucid, but Auguste managed to get two important facts from him: Firstly, that Laurent had left Ravenel with his army. Secondly, they had been ambushed by the Lord of Fortaine, and Laurent had presumably been taken there.

The rendezvous with Nikandros would have to wait, Auguste thought, saddling his horse. He had to find his brother first.

-

Fortaine was an impenetrable fort. Except Auguste had the advantage of being a Veretian man, who looked Veretian, rode a fine steed, and knew how to hold himself in a commanding manner.

“Identify yourself,” said the man at the gate.

“I am here with news. I was directed to deliver my message with haste.”

There was a pause. “What is the news concerning?”

“I am only to speak with Lord Guion of Fortaine on this matter.”

They let him in. He was shown into a room that must have been Guion’s study, and left to wait for the man’s arrival. Guion must have been waiting on news of some sort, because it didn’t take long for Auguste to hear the door open and close again behind him. He turned.

Auguste hadn’t thought much of whether anyone would recognise him; he felt like he had changed so much that it was hardly a possibility that someone could see who he had been in who he was now. Perhaps he should have given it more consideration. Guion went from arrogant to white-faced horror in the space of time it took for him to get a good look at Auguste. His back hit the door with a thud.

“Your highness?” he said, voice aghast.

Well. At least this meant he could ditch the pretense. “I’m here for my brother,” Auguste told him.

If it was possible, Guion became paler. “He-- You are…”

“Where is he?” Auguste urged. “Have you locked him in a room?” An even worse thought occurred. “The cells?”

Guion flinched.

“Give me the keys,” Auguste said. He tried to keep his voice steady but he could hear the anger seeping in. “And I may not kill you where you stand.”

Guion, like the weak-willed little man he apparently was, folded. He gave Auguste the keys. It took one swift hit to knock the man to the ground, unconscious. He deserved worse.

Auguste had been to Fortaine before, and he was familiar with the general layout of the forts. It wasn’t until he was at the top of the stairs, looking down into the darkness that led into the cells that he paused. He could feel the way his breathing had changed, the beginning stirrings of a panic that would leave him useless. He had been so fixated on his worry for Laurent that he had almost forgotten what a wreck he was. This was a terrible moment to remember.

Just the thought of going down there was… He stared at the top step and tried to urge himself to put just one foot forward. It was so dark. The scars around his wrists, his neck, felt as if they were burning. His ears were ringing.

Someone started screaming. A man, young and in pain. Laurent?

Auguste charged down the stairs. There was no time to think of anything but his brother. He’d rather go back to a cell for the rest of his days than to let Laurent die here.

There was a man speaking, “Tired already, princess?”

“Just reflecting,” came the insouciant reply. “I see you’re still holding a grudge about my turning you off.” It was Laurent speaking. His voice was deeper than Auguste had ever heard it, and yet he knew in his soul that it was his brother. He had the same unaffected drawl that their mother used to bring out whenever she was particularly unimpressed. His voice was rough. “Honestly, if you’d shown this kind of dedication to a task then, I wouldn’t have had to.”

“I’m going to make you beg,” the man replied.

Laurent screamed again, just as he fell into Auguste’s sight. Neither of them seemed to notice him fumbling with the keys and unlocking the cell; they were preoccupied. Laurent was bound to a chair and a large man seemed to be doing something to his shoulder with a knife. Auguste’s heart was pounding. The door creaked slightly.

Laurent heard it. He looked past his attacker and directly at Auguste. Auguste froze. His brother, it seemed, had inherited the same fine features as their mother along with the masculine jawline and straight nose of their father. It was a triple hit of pain for Auguste, who had been without his family for so long.

Laurent’s expression changed from pained to pure grief at the sight of him. “I’m dead,” Laurent murmured, almost a question.

Auguste raised his sword quietly. 

“Oh, I’m not done with you yet,” the assailant said. And that was the last thing he said.  
he made a choking noise as Auguste used all of his strength to skewer the man through his back. The man fell forward, but Auguste knocked him to the side before his body could land on Laurent.

“Laurent,” Auguste gasped, sparing the felled beast no mind. He fell to his knees and started to untie his brother from the chair he was roped to. The ropes on his left arm were already undone. “Laurent. Oh fuck.” His shoulder still had a knife in it.

Laurent looked dazed. “Am I dead?”

“No,” Auguste said, voice shaking. “I’m here. I came as fast as I could.”

The ropes fell off of Laurent’s hands and he immediately reached out for Auguste and then stopped, pained. 

Auguste could distantly feel himself crying.

“What is happening?” Laurent whispered. “I don’t understand.”

“We have to get you out of here,” Auguste told him. “We have to take care of your shoulder. You’re bleeding.”

“It’s not that bad,” Laurent told him. He blinked, and then his expression broke and he started to cry as well. “I wish you were really here,” he said. “I miss you. I miss you so much. Auguste.”

“I’m here,” Auguste said. “I promise, I’m here. Look at me, Laurent. We need to get you bandaged up. I think your shoulder is dislocated.”

Auguste put a hand on Laurent’s uninjured arm, to urge him out of the chair. 

Laurent’s eyes widened with shock at the physical contact. “You’re…?

“Yes,” Auguste said. “I’m alive. I know it’s a lot, but we need to get you out of here first.”

“Guion,” Laurent said, voice distant. “He’s… If I have him, I can take the fort.”

Auguste nodded. “I know where he is.”

-

They found a room, stocked with sufficient medical supplies, and Laurent stripped off his shirt at Auguste’s insistence, and let him work on cleaning and bandaging the wound. 

Finally, he had the opportunity to really look at his brother. This was it, this was why he had found the strength to come all of this way. Laurent. His wickedly smart, adoring little brother. Auguste’s reason for surviving for as long as he had.

Laurent was -- tall. Part of Auguste had still been expecting to see that skinny boy in his memory, with his big eyes and awkward limbs. This person was clearly a man. He had the well-defined shoulders of a dedicated swordsman, obvious now that he was shirtless. He was different, so very different, but still the same. Auguste could see that it was his brother in the nose they’d both inherited, and the bright blue of his eyes. His hair was still that shockingly fair yellow, that Auguste’s own hair had darkened away from as he’d aged.

“I have to put this back into place,” Auguste said. “I’ll find you something to bite down on.”

“Just do it,” Laurent gritted out. 

Auguste did.

Laurent was quiet until Auguste cleaned the wound, the movements as gently as possible, and then Laurent gasped. “You’re alive,” Laurent said. “I don’t understand. Why-- how?”

The aborted ‘why’ in that sentence was important, Auguste knew. He could fill in the rest of the words himself, the real question that Laurent wanted to ask was “why did you leave me?”. Slowly Auguste rolled up his sleeves, purposely drawing attention to the shackle shaped scars on his wrists. “It wasn’t by choice,” he said.

Laurent’s brow furrowed. “You… they cuffed you,” he said, and then quieter, “like a slave?”

Auguste almost smiled, the comparison was so ridiculous. “I would have much preferred to have been pampered like a slave,” Auguste told him. Laurent flinched. “No, I was in a cell. In Delpha. From what little we could find out, it was probably the doing of a Veretian lord of some sort. I barely remember getting put in there, I’d been…”

Laurent’s gaze fell to Auguste’s chest, where another scar was hidden away by clothing. 

“He didn’t kill you,” Laurent said. It was clearly a lot to take in. Auguste was finding it hard to read his expression and the distant way that he was talking, as if he were more in his own head than in the room.

“I’m alive,” Auguste told him, again. “I didn’t mean to leave you alone for so long, Laurent. You have to know I have been doing everything I could to get back to you.”

“I’m sorry.”

Augusted blinked. “None of this was your fault.”

Laurent shook his head. “A Veretian lord. It must have been him. He would have found so much amusement in watching me grieve while you were still alive.” 

“Who?”

“Uncle,” Laurent said. “I’m going to kill him for this.”

Auguste felt cold. “Uncle,” he repeated.

Laurent stood up. “I have to go to Charcy. I might still make it in time.”

“You’re meant to be going to Ravenel to meet with the Akielons.”

“No, they’ll be in Charcy by now.” Laurent hesitated. “I have to tell you something.”

“Alright,” Auguste said. He hardly thought whatever it was could be as bad as suddenly appearing back from the dead.

“I…I had an agreement with Damianos,” Laurent said.

“Oh,” Auguste frowned. “That is how you got the information for Nikandros?”

“What?”

“About Damianos’ death.”

Laurent paused. “Yes,” he said, carefully. “It seems that not as many princes have died recently than we once thought.”

That took a moment for Auguste to register. “Damianos is…”

“Alive,” Laurent filled in. “I’ve been hiding him. Not by choice, I wouldn’t-- I didn’t. I haven’t forgiven him. For you. I just… I needed him.”

“Oh,” Auguste repeated. “He was at Ravenel?” Nikandros would be happy.

“Yes,” Laurent said. “We arranged to meet at Charcy. Uncle has challenged me. I’m meant to provide reinforcements. He’ll be expecting me.”

“Charcy is terrible ground for a fight, Laurent.”

“We had a plan.”

Damianos was alive. And with Nikandros now, and they would be fighting a battle without the expected back up. Auguste could barely wrap his head around any of what he’d just been told, but that would have to come later. “Alright,” Auguste agreed. “We must go.”


	10. nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live!!! Sorry about the break between chapters, I am the worst, but if you're reading this then: thanks for hanging around anyway. I have 2k of the next chapter written already so feel free to fight me if it's not out within a week from now; and also there are some lines in this chapter that I straight up stole from King's Rising.

The fight was in full swing by the time they reached the field. Laurent, despite having had a dagger in his shoulder not too long ago, sat tall upon his horse and confidently led his men into the fray. Auguste followed closely beside him, and focused on staying on his brother’s injured side. He would not let anything happen to Laurent, especially not so soon after being reunited with him.

It was almost concerning how much easier it was to battle than it had been to get here, as if killing came more naturally to him than going past the gates of Marlas had. It was worse that it felt good; the physical exertion of swinging a sword, the pride of beating opponent after opponent. He felt focused. The only thing that mattered was survival — his and Laurent’s.

Together, they cut down dozens of men, and then, an unknown amount of hours later, it was over.

The field was a mess of bodies, blood, and horses. And there — on the other side of it all, clutching the muddied flag of the regent — was Damianos. Even this far away, Auguste could see the blood coating his armour.

Damianos climbed back atop his horse and made for their direction.

Laurent swung himself out of his saddle and leaned nonchalantly against his horse. There was a line of sweat on his brow; his shoulder must have been in agony despite his unaffected expression. Auguste dismounted as well, following his brother’s lead.

“Are you alright?” Auguste asked, quietly. 

Laurent turned to face him and then frowned, easing a hand to Auguste’s cheek. It stung. “You’re cut.” His fingertips came away reddened.

“It’s a scratch,” Auguste reassured him. “How is your shoulder?”

Laurent was staring at the blood on his hand with wide eyes. “If you die again,” Laurent said, slowly. “I will never forgive you.”

“I know.” He didn’t mention that he would have happily died on the field today, if it had come down to it to protect Laurent.

Laurent nodded once. “Damianos is on his way over.”

Auguste looked across the field and now there were two Akielons riding towards them. Nikandros had broken away to join his king, hair askew and expression tight. His front plate was missing, and his chest was bright red from where he had been sliced during the battle. Auguste stifled an urge to go to him and make sure he was alright. 

And there was Damianos— although Auguste found that he didn’t quite recognise him beyond his large frame and dark hair. It was his stance, the general manner about him that made it obvious who he was. A king. 

Auguste could remember the almost inhuman way that the man had cut his way through the battlefield to fight him all those years ago. (He could also remember the youthful look of shock across his face when Auguste had knocked the sword from his hands. He remembered stepping through bodies, and being so viscerally tired, and then being expected to cut down someone barely out of boyhood).

When they got close enough, the two men dismounted and continued on foot.

They met in the middle. Laurent, Auguste noticed, positioned himself slightly in front of him, as if trying to prevent Damianos from getting too close.

Damianos looked between them, then glanced at Nikandros, who nodded in confirmation. Auguste wasn’t surprised that he’d prewarned his King about Auguste’s resurrection.

Damianos looked directly at him, then bizarrely he smiled widely, and the expression was so guileless and unexpected, that Auguste found himself almost wanting to smile back.

“I see you survived,” Laurent said.

Damianos reacted to Laurent immediately, his smile dropping into something more earnest. ”I knew you would come,” Damianos said, voice thick. He didn’t sound accusatory, despite the fact he had clearly done more than his part during the battle, judging by all the blood. If anything he sounded happy that Laurent had arrived at all. He threw the dirtied red lump of a banner to the ground. “It wasn’t him.”

“Of course,” Laurent replied, cooly. “My men have taken Fortaine, while you were reuniting with yours. Let us camp there and then negotiate terms.”

“Wait,” Damianos said, but Laurent was already turning away. 

Auguste took a spare second to meet Nikandros’ eyes, unreadable, before he joined his brother.

-

Laurent seemed troubled. His brow was furrowed and he kept casting looks over to the Akielon encampment, while they set up. Auguste thought about how cold he’d been when they’d talked with Damianos. 

“Don’t worry,” Auguste said, putting a hand on Laurent’s arm. Laurent leaned into the gesture after a moment. “We’ll sort this all out and I’ll make sure you see the Akielon King as little as possible.”

He felt the tension his brother was carrying. 

Laurent shook his head after a moment. “Thank you,” He finally said. “You’re right. It will be better the less I have to talk to him.” And yet his expression did not ease.

“We’ll talk later tonight about what’s happened while we’ve been apart.” He hadn’t yet decided all of what he wanted to tell Laurent but he also knew he that there were things he had to tell him. 

Laurent simply nodded.

There was a long moment of silence between them where it became clear that neither of them quite knew what to say.

It was almost awkward. Without the high intensity of the battle, it was becoming painfully apparent that they hadn’t seen each other for six years. Auguste loved Laurent, their time apart hadn’t changed that, but he also had to admit that he didn’t know him. Gone was the eager boy who used to get constantly underfoot and would talk endlessly about his interests. The Laurent of now was reticent, tense, and hard to read. He seemed both deeply happy and horrified that Auguste was standing here. Auguste did not know how to bridge the gap.

“Are you upset with me?” Auguste asked, finally.

“Upset with you,” Laurent repeated. “No. You came back; how could I be upset?”

“I’ve changed a lot.” 

“Yes,” Laurent agreed. “So have I.”

Auguste, who had spent the last three years afraid of how his brother would react to who he’d become, couldn’t speak for a moment. 

Laurent took a deep breath. “I didn’t expect you to come back,” he said, almost nervously. “I’ve made a lot of decisions that you wouldn’t be proud of, and I don’t know how….”

“How to?” he prompted.

Laurent shook his head. “We have to replan everything now of course. You’ve been gone for so long that Uncle may try to say that you’re an imposter. We will have to make sure your claim is undeniable. Damianos will-- I know that it will be difficult, but he will agree to help.”

“Laurent, no,” Auguste said.

Laurent frowned. “No,” he repeated, then haltingly, “Or we can send the Akielons back to their country. There are a few lords that we could gain the loyalty of now that you’re back.”

“No,” Auguste said. “I wasn’t rejecting further negotiations with Akielos. I was saying no to-- I’m not here to claim a place on the throne.”

“It is your right,” Laurent said, his tone almost uncertain.

Auguste took Laurent’s hand and waited until he looked up at him to continue speaking. “I don’t care. I didn’t come back for Vere, Laurent. I came back for you.”

This time when they fell silent, it was a thoughtful kind. Then Laurent cleared his throat, and looked away. “I need to see Paschal about my shoulder.”

-

With Laurent being seen to by the physician, Auguste took the opportunity to find Nikandros’ tent. 

He peered into the opening. “May I enter?”

Nikandros raised an eyebrow, standing from the table. Auguste stepped inside.

“You’ve cut your face,” Nik said. 

“I thought an extra scar might make me more dashingly handsome. What do you think?”

Nikandros approached him. “I think it’s not nearly deep enough to scar.” He gently touched Auguste’s cheek. “You made it.”

“I did. You were wounded.”

His chest was bare now, the slash across his skin obvious, but it was no longer bleeding and had clearly been seen to. Nothing to worry too much about then. “Prince Laurent swept in late to the rendezvous; was that planned?” He sounded unhappy. 

Auguste frowned. “Of course not. He got into trouble at Fortaine. I heard a rumour in the village and got him out.”

Nikandros nodded. “Good.” He gave Auguste a considering look. “Have you sat down at all today?” 

He hadn’t. He felt as if he’d been running off of nothing but adrenaline and a considerable dose of fear. Nik could clearly tell. He led Auguste over to his bedroll and pulled him down onto it. 

“A few minutes of rest won’t hurt,” Nik told him. 

“I have to get back to Laurent soon,” Auguste said, but he still let his head rest against Nik’s shoulder. He took a long moment to appreciate the quiet companionship, but Auguste had a feeling it would be some time until his body would let him genuinely rest, and his mind was reeling with all that had happened. “So Damianos is alive, then.”

Oddly, that made Nikandros tense. “Did your brother tell you what happened?”

“There hasn’t been a lot of time for catching up,” Auguste said. “He told me something about an alliance between himself and Damianos; he hid him from Kastor, I think.”

He could sense Nik’s displeasure, if not place the cause of it. “Damen is wearing a cuff,” Nik said, obviously trying to lead him somewhere.

The relevancy of Damianos’ fashion choices was lost to Auguste.

“A slave cuff,” Nikandros said.

“Why?” 

Nik pulled away from him; he looked frustrated. “Kastor sent Damianos to your brother in cuffs; he was his slave.”

Auguste frowned. “Why?” He repeated.

Nikandros shook his head. “Go talk to your brother about it.”

A wave of dread washed through Auguste. He thought of Laurent saying he’d made decisions that Auguste wouldn’t be proud of. He was fairly certain that there was nothing that Laurent could do to make him love him any less but… Perhaps he had misjudged the difference six years could make. “Is it that bad?”

Nikandros shrugged, and the gesture was almost resentful. “Damen wouldn’t tell me more than that.”

-

Auguste took a detour on his way back to Laurent’s tent, to watch the Veretian soldiers as they finished setting up the camp and started working on other duties. They worked fast and the rows of tents were orderly. Some of the men looked a little… unconventional for soldiers, but perhaps that spoke more to Laurent’s credit. That he could take even the mercenary looking men and turn them into proper soldiers. 

He didn’t want to get too close to any of them; he didn’t recognise any of the soldiers he saw, but that didn’t mean none of them would recognise him. He wasn’t yet sure how they would deal with his return. Perhaps it would present more trouble than good for the general public to know he was back. If Laurent had thought that Auguste had wanted to make a claim for the throne, then they might as well.

He sighed. He was aware that he was stalling. 

He needed to speak with Laurent. He turned away from the men and continued back towards the royal tent. There were no guards out front, Auguste noted, which meant Laurent hadn’t returned from the physician yet, except then he stepped into the tent and saw that there was a different reason for the lack of guards.

Laurent was in the tent, arms crossed against his chest and a forbidding expression. And before him stood Damianos. When he had seen Damianos on the field, Auguste had thought that he looked like a king. Now, standing in Laurent’s tent and with one hand braced against a tent pole -- as if he needed it to stay upright -- Damianos simply looked like a man burdened. His expression was that of someone who had found themselves quite suddenly and unexpectedly lost at sea.

Laurent’s gaze flickered to Auguste briefly, and then back to Damianos, who he continued to speak to. “On that table is a list of supplies and troops. I will give it to you, in support of your campaign to the south.”

“In exchange for,” Damianos said.

“Delpha.”

Auguste took advantage of the pause, and spoke to Laurent, “South?”

Damianos turned around a little wildly. He had apparently been too focused on Laurent to notice the extra company.  
Laurent gave him a searching look. “Uncle is south,” he said, slowly, as if he thought Auguste might have forgotten. “Guion told us.”

“That doesn’t mean we should run to Ios and fight him,” Auguste replied. He didn’t want to argue with Laurent or undermine him in front of Damianos, but he couldn’t make sense of Laurent’s apparent plan. “Arles is empty.” He tried to phrase it like a suggestion.

Laurent gazed at him, considering. Auguste could almost see the cogs turning behind his eyes. 

“Yes,” Laurent said, finally. “I hadn’t taken you into consideration when I’d made these plans. Some revisions may be in order.”

“Moving towards Akielos is the sensible decision,” Damianos argued. “We can regain my throne and yours at once. Or at the very least, I can add to our men those who are still loyal to me in Akielos.”

“My uncle expects us to do exactly that,” Laurent replied. “He wants us to; he’ll have planned for it. But, as Auguste said, he has left the capital empty in his plans, and he couldn't have predicted Auguste’s return. We must take this as the opportunity it is.”

 

Damianos frowned.

“If we go to Arles,” Laurent said, “It will force him to come to us or leave us with the seat of power. He’ll have to abandon whatever he’s doing in Ios, which will separate him from Kastor. We’ll deal with him, and then I can offer you even more aid for your campaign to Akielos.”

“I won’t give you Delpha,” Damianos said. 

It was odd to be back in the room where deals were made and places were treated like things to trade. Delpha was a strategically important territory. And it was the place where Auguste had almost died, and suffered greatly, also where he had recovered, and loved, and learned to live again. It was where Nikandros called home.

“You will,” Laurent replied. “There’s something else I have that you want.”

There was a heavy pause. Auguste was lost to whatever double meaning was happening between them in that moment.

“Guion,” he continued, “has agreed to testify in writing to the details of the deal that he brokered between Kastor and my uncle during his time as Ambassador.”

Auguste’s brow furrowed. Guion hadn’t agreed to that at all. It was his wife that Laurent had spoken to, soft-voiced, before they had left for the rendezvous.  
Damianos looked at Auguste then, and he realised his thoughts must have been clear on his face, because Damianos turned back to Laurent and asked, “Did he?” with a heavy dose of disbelief.

“He will,” Laurent replied easily. 

“Nikandros won’t give up Delpha,” Damianos said, “and I won’t do this without him.”

That… well, Auguste would be lying if he said that didn’t make him see Damianos in a slightly better light.

“He will when you give him Ios.”

Auguste tried very hard not to react to that. He’d already known that he and Nik would not be able to continue their relationship for much longer: what did it matter how far away he was when he was an impossibility either way?

Damianos tried to say something then, voice bitter, but Laurent -- with a quick glance at Auguste -- cut him off. “Do I have your agreement? Say it.”

“You have my agreement.”

“Good. Now get out.”

Damianos retreated. He had barely stepped out of the tent when Laurent, pale-faced and jaw clenched, sat heavily down upon a chair and put his face into his hands. At that last glimpse of his face, Auguste thought oddly, that he looked even more pained than he had when Auguste had pushed his dislocated shoulder back into place.


End file.
